AM 


THE 


THREE   BRIDES, 


LOVE    IN    A   COTTAGE, 


AND 


OTHER  TALES 


BY 

FRANCIS    A.   DURIVAGE 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  BAZIN  &  ELLSWORTH, 
No.   1    CORNHII.L. 


Y  OF  CALIFOfcNL* 
DAVIS 


FEINTED  BV 
C.     BAND     U     AVER 


PREFACE. 


THE  volume  here  submitted  to  the  public  is  com 
posed  of  selections  from  my  contributions  to  the 
columns  of  the  American  press.  The  stories  and 
sketches  were  written,  most  of  them,  in  the  inter 
vals  of  relaxation  from  more  serious  labor  and  the 
daily  business  of  life  ;  and  they  would  be  suffered 
to  disappear  in  the  Lethe  that  awaits  old  magazines 
and  newspapers,  had  not  their  extensive  circulation, 
and  the  partial  judgment  of  friends,  —  for  I  must 
not  omit  the  stereotyped  pica  of  scribblers,  —  flat 
tered  me  that  their  collection  in  a  permanent  form 
would  not  prove  wholly  unacceptable.  Some  of 
these  articles  were  published  anonymously,  or  un 
der  the  signature  of  "  The  Old  'Un,"  and  have  en 
joyed  the  honor  of  adoption  by  persons  having  no 
claim  to  their  paternity  ;  and  it  seems  time  to  call 
home  and  assemble  these  vagabond  children  undei 
the  paternal  wing. 

7 


8  PREFACE. 

The  materials  for  the  tales  were  gathered  from 
various  sources  :  some  are  purely  imaginative,  some 
authentic,  not  a  few  jotted  down  from  oral  narra 
tive,  or  derived  from  the  vague  remembrance  of 
some  old  play  or  adventure  ;  but  the  form  at  least 
is  my  own,  and  that  is  about  all  that  a  professional 
story-teller,  gleaning  his  matter  at  random,  can 
generally  lay  claim  to. 

Some  of  these  sketches  were  originally  published 
in  the  Boston  "  Olive  Branch,"  and  many  in  Mr. 
Gleason's  popular  papers,  the  "  Flag  of  Our  Union," 
and  the  "  Pictorial  Drawing-Room  Companion." 
Others  have  appeared  in  the  "  New  York  Mirror," 
the  "  American  Monthly  Magazine,"  the  New  York 
"Spirit  of  the  Times,"  the  "Symbol,"  and  other 
magazines  and  papers. 

Should  their  perusal  serve  to  beguile  some  hours 
of  weariness  and  illness,  as  their  composition  has 
done,  I  shall  feel  that  my  labor  has  not  been 
altogether  vain ;  while  the  moderate  success  of  this 
venture  will  stimulate  me  to  attempt  something 
more  worthy  the  attention  of  the  public. 

FRANCIS  A.  DURIVAGE. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


MM 

THE  GOLDSMITH'S  DAUGHTER.  .  .  .      11 

P1I1LETUS  1'OTTS.  ....  .27 

VUE  GONDOLIER .32 

THE  SURRENDER  OF  CORNWALLIS.       .       .  .40 

THE  THREE  BRIDES.  .        .  .  .      45 

CALIFORNIA  SPECULATION 58 

THE  FRENCH  GUARDSMAN ...      63 

PERSONAL  SATISFACTION 76 

THE  CASTLE  ON  THE  RHINE 80 

LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE.  93 

THE  CAREER  OF  AN  ARTIST 99 

SOUVENIRS  OF  A  RETIRED  OYSTERMAN  IN  ILL  HEALTH.        112 

THE  NEW  YEAR'S  STOCKINGS 118 

THE  OBLIGING  YOUNG  MAN.  127 

EULALIE  LASALLE 132 

THE  OLD  CITY  PUMP 142 

THE  TWO  PORTRAITS 1 17 

UNCLE  OBED ....        155 

THE  CASKET  OF  JEWELS 160 

ACTING  CHARADES.       .        .  178 

TUF  GREEN  CHAMBER.  .        .  .  «...    189 

9 


10  CONTENTS. 

1IE  WASN'T  A  HOUSE  JOCKEY.        .        .                                .       .  19J 

FUNEKAL  SHADOWS.        .                       .                       ...  197 

TLIE  LATE  ELIAS  MUGGS 207 

THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. .213 

A  KISS  ON  DEMAND.      ...               231 

THE  RIFLE  SHOT -  237 

THE  WATER  CURE.                  .                               244 

THE  COSSACK .                               .       .  248 

MARRIED  FOR  MONEY.          ...               .                               .  2CO 

THE  EMIGRANT  SHIP.        ....                                       .       .  2G0 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  STAGE  COACHES.  271 
THE  SEXTON  OF  ST.  HUBERT'S                                                    .       .276 

JACK  WITHERS.        ...                                               ...  292 

THE  SILVER  HAMMER.     .       .                                       .       •                .  302 

THE  CHRIST  CHURCH  CHIMES.                        316 

THE  POLISH  SLAVE.          .                                                       ...  320 

OBEYING  ORDERS.           .       .                                               ...  331 

THE  DEACON'S  HORSE.            .                                                ...  335 

THE  CONTRABANDISTA.        .       .                .                       .        .       .  33& 

THE  STAGE-STRUCK  GENTLEMAN.     .  .351 

THE  DIAMOND  STAR.              ...                               .       .  335 

THE  GAME  OF  CHANCE. 373 

THE  SOLDIER'S  SON.      ...                382 

TAKING  CHARGE  OF  A  LADY.                     391 

THE  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS 397 

THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW          ....                       .  iffj 


THE .  GOLDSMITH'S   DAUGHI ER. 

A  LEGEND   OF  MADRID. 

MANY,  many  years  ago,  in  those  "  good  old  times "  so 
much  bepraised  by  antiquaries  and  the  laudatores  tempo* 
ris  acti,  —  the  good  old  times,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  holy 
office,  of  those  magnificent  autos  when  the  smell  of  roasted 
heretics  was  as  sweet  a  savor  in  the  nostrils  of  the  faithful, 
as  that  of  Quakers  done  remarkably  brown  was  to  our 
godly  Puritan  ancestors,  —  there  dwelt  in  the  royal  city  of 
Madrid  a  wealthy  goldsmith  by  the  name  of  Antonio  Perez, 
whose  family  —  having  lost  his  wife  —  consisted  of  a  love 
ly  daughter,  named  Magdalena,  and  a  less  beautiful  but 
still  charming  niece,  Juanita.  The  housekeeping  and  the 
care  of  the  girls  were  committed  to  a  starched  old  duenna, 
Donna  Margarita,  whose  vinegar  aspect  and  sharp  tongue 
might  well  keep  at  a  distance  the  boldest  gallants  of  the 
court  and  camp.  For  the  rest,  some  half  dozen  workmen 
and  servitors,  and  a  couple  of  stout  Asturian  serving 
wenches  made  up  the  establishment  of  the  wealthy  artisan. 
As  the  chief  care  of  the  latter  was  to  accumulate  treasure, 
his  family,  while  they  were  denied  no  comfort,  were  de 
barred  from  luxury,  and,  perhaps,  fared  the  better  from  this 
very  frugality  of  the  master.  Yet  in  the  stable,  which  oc 
cupied  a  portion  of  the  basement  story  of  his  residence,  — 
the  other  half  being  devoted  to  the  almacen,  or  store,  — 
there  were  a  couple  of  long-tailed  Flemish  mares,  and  a 

11 


12  TIIE   GOLDSMITH'S    DAUGHTER. 

heavy,  lumbering  chariot ;  and  in  the  rear  of  the  house  a 
garden,  enclosed  on  three  sides  with  a  stone  wall,  and  com 
prising  arbors,  a  fountain,  and  a  choice  variety  of  fruits  and 
flowers. 

One  evening,  the  goldsmith's  daughter  and  her  cousin 
sat  in  their  apartment,  on  the  second  story,  peeping  out 
through  the  closed  "jalousies,"  or  blinds,  into  the  twilight 
street,  haply  on  the  watch  for  some  gallant  cavalier,  whose 
horsemanship  and  costume  they  might  admire  or  criticize. 
Seeing  nothing  there,  however,  to  attract  their  attention, 
they  turned  to  each  other. 

"Juanita,"  said  the  goldsmith's  daughter,  "I  believe  I 
have  secured  an  admirer." 

"  An  admirer ! "  exclaimed  the  pretty  cousin.  "  If  your 
father  and  dame  Margarita  didn't  keep  us  cooped  here  like 
a  pair  of  pigeons,  we  should  have,  at  least,  twenty  apiece. 
But  what  manner  of  man  is  this  phoenix  of  yours  ?  Is  he 
tall?  Has  he  black  eyes,  or  blue?  Is  he  courtier  or 
soldier?" 

"  He  is  tall,"  replied  Magdalena,  smiling  ;  "  but  for  his 
favor,  or  the  color  of  his  eyes,  or  quality,  I  cannot  answer 
His  face  and  figure  shrouded  in  a  cloak,  his  sombrerc 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  he  takes  up  his  station  agninst  ( 
pillar  of  the  church  whenever  I  go  to  San  Ildefonso  witl 
my  duenna,  and  watches  me  till  mass  is  ended.  I  have 
caught  him  following  our  footsteps.  But  be  he  gentle  01 
simple,  fair  or  dark,  I  know  not." 

"  A  very  mysterious  character ! "  cried  Juanita,  laughing 
tt  like  unto  the  bravo  of  some  Italian  tale.  Jesu  Maria !  '' 
she  exclaimed,  springing  to  the  window,  "what  goodly 
cavalier  rides  hither  ?  His  mantle  is  of  three-pile  velvet, 
and  he  wears  golden  spurs  upon  his  heels.  And  with  what 
a  grace  he  sits  and  manages  his  fiery  genet !  Pray  Heaven 
your  suitor  be  as  goodly  a  cavalier." 


THE   GOLDSMITH'S    DAUGHTER.  13 

Magdalena  gazed  fortli  upon  the  horseman,  and  her  heart 
silently  confessed  that  the  praises  of  her  cousin  were  well 
bestowed.  As  the  cavalier  approached  the  goldsmith's 
house,  he  checked  the  impatient  speed  of  his  horse,  and 
gazed  upward  earnestly  at  the  window  where  the  young 
girls  sat. 

"  Magdalena ! "  cried  the  mischievous  Juanita,  "  old 
Margarita  is  not  here  to  document  us,  and  I  declare  your 
beauty  shall  have  one  chance."  As  she  spoke  she  threw 
open  the  blind,  and  exposed  her  lovely  and  blushing  cousin 
to  the  gaze  of  the  cavalier. 

Ardently  and  admiringly  he  gazed  upon  her  dark  and 
faultless  features,  and  then  raising  his  plumed  hat,  bowed 
to  his  very  saddle  bow,  and  rode  on,  but  turned,  ever  and 
anon,  till  he  was  lost  in  the  distance  and  gradual  darkening 
of  the  street. 

"•Mutual  admiration!"  cried  the  gay  J:.ianita,  clapping 
her  hands.  "  Thank  me  for  the  stratagem.  Yon  cavalier 
is,  without  a  doubt,  the  mysterious  admirer  of  San  Ilde- 
fonso." 

Don  Julio  Montero  —  for  that  was  the  name  of  the  cav 
alier  —  returned  again  beneath  the  casement,  and  again 
saw  Magdalena.  He  also  made  some  purchases  of  the  old 
goldsmith,  and  managed  to  speak  a  word  with  his  fair 
daughter  in  the  shop ;  and  in  spite  of  the  duenna,  billets 
were  exchanged  between  the  parties.  The  very  secrecy 
with  which  this  little  intrigue  was  managed,  the  mystery 
of  it,  influenced  the  imagination  of  Magdalena  and  in 
creased  the  violence  of  her  attachment,  and  loving  with  all 
the  fervor  of  her  meridian  nature,  she  felt  that  any  disap- 
Dointment  would  be  her  death. 

One  evening,  as  her  secret  suitor  was  passing  along  a 
narrow  an&l  unfrequent  street,  a  light  touch  was  laid  upon 
2 


14        THE  GOLDSMITH'S  DAUGHTER. 

his  shoulder,  and  turning,  he  perceived  a  tall  figure,  muffled 
in  a  long,  dark  cloak. 

"  Senor  Montero,"  said  the  stranger,  "  one  word  with 
you."  And  then,  observing  that  he  hesitated,  he  threw 
open  his  cloak,  and  added,  "  Nay,  senor,  suspect  not  that 
my  purpose  is  unfriendly ;  you  see  I  have  no  arms,  while 
you  wear  both  rapier  and  dagger.  I  merely  wish  to  say  a 
few  words  on  a  matter  of  deep  import  to  yourself." 

"  Your  name,  senor,"  replied  the  other,  "  methinks  should 
precede  any  communication  you  have  to  make  me,  would 
you  secure  my  confidence." 

"  My  name,  senor,  I  cannot  disclose." 

"  Umph  !  a  somewhat  strange  adventure  ! "  muttered  the 
young  cavalier.  "  However,  friend,  since  such  you  purport 
to  be,  say  your  say,  and  that  right  briefly,  for  I  have  affairs 
of  urgency  on  my  hands." 

"  Briefly,  then,  senor.  You  have  cast  your  eyes  on  the 
daughter  of  Antonio  Perez,  the  rich  goldsmith  ?  " 

"That  is  my  affair,  methinks,"  replied  the  cavalier, 
haughtily.  "  By  what  right  do  you  interfere  with  it  ?  Are 
you  brother  or  relative  of  the  fair  Magdalcna  ?  " 

"Neither,  senor;  but  I  take  a  deep  interest  in  your  af 
fairs  ;  and  I  warn  you,  if  your  heart  be  not  irretrievably 
involved,  to  withdraw  from  the  prosecution  of  your  ad 
dresses.  To  my  certain  knowledge,  Magdalena  is  beloved 
by  another." 

"  What  of  that,  man  ?  A  fair  field  and  no  favor,  is  all 
I  ask." 

"  But  what  if  she  loves  another  ?  " 

"  Ha ! "  exclaimed  the  cavalier.  "  Can  she  be  sporting 
with  me?  —  playing  the  coquette?  But  no!  I  will  not 
believe  it,  at  least  upon  the  say  so  of  a  stranger.  I  must 
have  proofs  " 


TIIK   GOLDSMITH'S    DAUGHTER.  15 

"  Pray,  senor,  have  you  never  observed  upon  the  lady's 
fair  arm  a  turquoise  bracelet  ?  " 

"  Yea,  have  I,"  replied  the  cavalier ;  "  by  tbft  same  token 
(that  she  has  promised  it  to  me  as  a  gage  d'amour." 

."Do  you  recognize  the  bracelet?"  cried  the  stranger, 
holding  up,  as  he  spoke,  the  ornament  in  question.  "  Or, 
if  that  convince  you  not,  do  you  recognize  this  tress  of 
raven  hair  —  this  bouquet  that  she  wore  upon  her  bosom 
yesternight  ?  " 

"That  I  gave  her  myself!"  cried  the  cavalier.  "By 
Heaven!  she  has  proved  false  tome.  But  I  must  know," 
he  added,  fiercely,  "  who  thou  art  ere  thou  goest  hence.  I 
must  have  thy  secret,  if  I  force  it  from  thee  at  the  dagger's 
point.  Who  art  thou  ?  speak  ! " 

"  Prithee,  senor,  press  me  not,"  said  the  stranger,  draw 
ing  his  cloak  yet  closer  about  him,  and  retreating  a  pace 
or  two. 

"  Who  art  thou  ?  "  cried  the  cavalier,  menacingly,  and 
striding  forward  as  the  other  receded. 

"One  whose  name  breathed  in  thine  ear,"  replied  the 
other,  "  would  curdle  thy  young  blood  with  horror." 

Julio  laughed  loud  and  scornfully. 

"  Now,  by  Saint  lago !  thou  art  some  juggling  knave  — 
some  impish  charlatan,  who  seeks  to  conceal  his  imposture 
in  the  garb  of  mystery  and  terror.  Little  knowest  thou  the 
mettle  of  a  Castilian  heart.  Thy  name  ?  " 

The  stranger  stooped  forward,  and  whispered  a  word  or 
two  in  the  ear  of  his  companion.  The  young  man  recoiled, 
while  his  cheek  turned  from  the  glowing  tinge  of  health 
and  indignation  to  the  hue  of  ashes ;  and,  as  he  stood, 
rooted  to  the  spot  in  terror  and  dismay,  the  stranger  threw 
the  hem  of  his  cloak  over  his  shoulder,  and  glided  away 
like  a  dark  shadow. 


16  TIIK  GOLDSMITH'S    DAUGHTER. 

Julio's  heart  was  so  far  enlisted  in  favor  of  Magdalena, 
that  it  cost  him  a  severe  struggle  to  throw  her  off  as  utterly 
unworthy  of  his  attachment,  but  pride  came  to  his  rescue, 
and  he  performed  his  task.  He  wrote  a  letter,  in  which,, 
assigning  no  cause  for  the  procedure,  he  calmly,  coldly, 
contemptuously  renounced  her  hand,  and  told  her  that 
henceforth,  should  they  meet,  it  must  be  as  strangers. 

This  unexpected  blow  almost  paralyzed  Magdalena's 
reason.  It  was  to  be  expected  of  her  temperament  that 
her  anguish  should  be  in  proportion  to  her  former  rapture. 
At  first  stunned,  she  roused  to  the  paroxysm  of  wild  de 
spair.  Henceforth,  if  she  lived,  her  life,  she  felt,  would  be 
an  utter  blank.  Passion  completely  overmastering  her 
reason,  she  resolved  to  destroy  herself.  This  fearful  reso 
lution  adopted,  her  excitement  ceased.  She  became  calm 
—  calm  as  the  senseless  stone  ;  no  tremors  shook  her  soul, 
no  remorse,  no  regret. 

She  was  seated  alone,  one  evening,  at  that  very  window 
whence  she  had  first  beheld  her  false  suitor,  and  bitter 
memories  were  crowding  on  her  brain,  when  the  door  of 
her  apartment  opened,  and  closed  again  after  admitting  her 
old  duenna,  Margarita.  The  old  woman  approached  with 
a  stealthy,  cat-like  step,  and  sitting  down  beside  the  maiden, 
and  gazing  inquisitively  into  her  dim  eyes,  said,  in  a  whin 
ing  voice,  intended  to  be  very  winning  and  persuasive, — 

"  What  ails  my  pretty  pet  ?     Is  she  unwell  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  unwell,"  replied  Magdalena,  coldly,  rousing 
herself  to  the  exertion  of  conversing,  with  an  effort. 

"Nay,  my  darling,"  said  the  old  woman,  in  the  same 
whining  tone,  "I  am  sure  that  something  is  the  ma'.tei 
with  you.  You  look  feverish." 

"  I  am  well,  Margarita  ;  let  that  suffice." 

"  And  f  jel  no  regret  for  the  false  suitor,  hey  ?  " 


THE  GOLDSMITH'S   DAUGHTER.  17 

Magdalena  turned  upon  her  quickly  —  almost  fiercely. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  him  ?  " 

l-  All !  all ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  while  her  gray  eyes 
flashed  with  exultation. 

"  Then  you  know  him  for  a  false  and  perjured  villain  !  * 
cried  the  beautiful  Spaniard. 

"  I  know  him  for  an  honorable  cavalier ;  true  as  the  steel 
of  his  Toledo  blade !  "  retorted  the  duenna.  "  I  speak  rid 
dles,  Magdalena,  but  I  will  explain  myself.  Do  you  think 
I  can  forget  your  insults,  jeers,  and  jokes  ?  Do  you  think 
I  knew  not  when  you  mocked  me  behind  my  back,  or 
sought  to  trick  me  before  my  face  ?  You  little  knew,  when 
you  and  your  gay-faced  cousin  were  making  merry  at  my 
expense,  what  wrath  you  were  storing  up  against  the  day 
of  evil.  But  I  come  of  a  race  that  never  forgets  or  for 
gives  ;  there  is  some  of  the  blood  of  the  wild  Zingara 
coursing  in  these  shrivelled  veins  —  a  love  of  vengeance, 
that  is  dearer  than  the  love  of  life.  I  watched  your  love 
intrigue  from  the  very  first.  I  saw  that  it  bade  fair  to  end 
in  happiness.  Don  Julio  was  wealthy  and  well  born,  and 
his  intentions  were  honorable.  After  indulging  your  ro 
mantic  spirit  by  a  secret  wooing,  he  would  have  openly 
claimed  you  of  your  father,  and  the  old  man  would  have 
been  but  too  proud  to  give  his  consent.  Now  came  the  mo 
ment  for  revenge.  I  traduced  you  to  your  lover,  making 
use  of  an  agent  who  was  wholly  mine.  Trifles  produce 
conviction  when  once  the  faith  of  jealous  man  is  shaken. 
A  few  toys" —  a  turquoise  bracelet,  a  lock  of  hair,  a  bunch 
of  faded  flowers  —  sufficed  to  turn  the  scale ;  and  now, 
were  an  angel  of  heaven  to  pronounce  you  true,  Don 
Julio  would  disbelieve  the  testimony.  Ha,  ha !  am  I  not 
avenged  ?  " 

"  And  was  it,"  said  Magdalena,  in  a  low,  pathetic  voice, 
2* 


18  THE  GOLDSMITH'S   DAUGHTER. 

—  "was  it  for  a  few  jests,  —  a  little  childish  chafing  against 
restraint,  that  you  wrecked  the  happiness  of  a  poor  young 
girl, — blighted  her  hopes,  and  broke  her  heart  ?     Woman 

—  fiend!  dare  you  tell  me  this?"  she  cried,  kindling  into 
passion   with   a   sudden    transition.      "  Avaunt !    begone ! 
Leave  my  sight,  you  hideous  and  evil  thing !     But  take 
with  you  my  bitter  curse — no  empty  anathema  !  but  one 
that  will  cling  to  you  like  the  garment  of  flame  that  wraps 
the  doomed  heretic!     Begone!  accursed  wretch — hideous 
in  soul  as  you  are  abhorrent  and  repulsive  in  person." 

Cowed,  but  muttering  wrathful  wrords,  the  stricken 
wretch  hurried  out  of  the  apartment,  into  which  Juanita 
instantly  rushed. 

"  Magdalena,  what  means  this  ?  "  she  cried.  "  I  heard 
you  uttering  fearful  threats  against  old  Margarita.  Calm 
yourself;  you  are  strangely  excited." 

"  O  Juanita,  Juanita  ! "  cried  Magdalena,  the  tears  start 
ing  from  her  eyes,  and  wringing  her  fair  hands.  "  If  you 
knew  all  —  if  you  knew  the  wrong  that  woman  has  done 
me ;  but  not  now  —  not  now  ;  leave  me,  good  cousin,  — 
leave  me ! " 

"  You  are  not  well,  dearest,"  said  Juanita ;  "  take  my 
advice,  go  to  bed  and  repose.  To-morrow  you  will  be 
calm,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  tell  me  all." 

"  To-morrow !  to-morrow ! "  muttered  Magdalena.  "  Well, 
well ;  to-morrow  you  will  find  me ! " 

"  Yes ;  I  will  waken  you,  and  sit  at  your  bedside,  and 
laugh  your  griefs  away.  Good  night,  Magdalena  ! " 

"  Farewell,  dearest ! "  said  the  heart-stricken  girl ;  and 
Juanita  left  the  chamber. 

Before  a  silver  crucifix,  Magdalena  knelt  in  prayer. 

"  Father  of  mercies,  blessed  Virgin,  absolve  me  of  the 


THE   GOLDSMITH'S    DAUGHTER.  19 

sin  —  if  sin  it  be  to  rush  unbidden  to  the  presence  of  my 
Judge  !  My  burden  is  too  great  to  bear  ! " 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  took  from  a  cupboard  a  goblet 
of  Venetian  glass,  and  a  flask  of  Xeres  wine.  Into  the 
goblet  she  first  dropped  the  contents  of  a  paper  she  took 
from  her  bosom,  and  then  filled  it  to  the  brim  with  wine. 
She  had  already  stretched  forth  her  hand  to  the  fatal  glass, 
when  she  heard  her  name  called  by  her  father. 

"  He  would  give  me  a  good-night  kiss,"  said  the  wretched 
girl.  "I  must  receive  it  with  pure  lips.  I  come,  dear 
father,  —  I  come." 

Scarcely  had  she  'left  her  chamber  when  the  old  duenna 
again  stole  into  the  room. 

"If  I  could  only  find  one  of  the  gallant's  letters,"  sho 
muttered  to  herself,  "  I  could  arm  her  father's  mind  against 
her ;  and  then  if  madam  tried  to  get  me  turned  away,  she 
would  have  her  labor  for  her  pains.  What  have  we  here  ? 
A  flask  of  Xeres,  as  I  live !  So  ho,  senorita  !  Is  this  the 
source  of  your  inspiration  when  you  berate  your  betters  ? 
I  declare  it  smells  good;  the  jade  is  no  bad  judge  of 
wine ! " 

As  she  spoke,  the  old  woman,  who  had  no  particular 
aversion  to  the  juice  of  the  grape,  hurriedly  drank  off  the 
contents  of  the  goblet,  and  immediately  filled  it  up  again 
from  the  flask. 

"  There !  she'll  be  no  wiser,"  said  she,  with  a  cunning 
leer.  "  And  now  I  must  hurry  off.  I  would  not  have  the 
young  baggage  find  me  here  for  a  month's  wages  !  " 

Margarita  effected  her  retreat  just  in  time.  Magdalcna 
returned,  after  having,  as  she  supposed,  seen  her  poor 
father  for  the  last  time. 

Had  not  despair  completely  overmastered  the  reason  of 
the  poor  girl,  she  would  have  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  com 


20  THE  GOLDSMITH'S    DAUGHTER. 

mining  suicide.  But  misery  had  completely,  though  tem 
porarily,  wrecked  her  intellect.  She  felt  no  horror,  no  re 
morse  at  the  deed  she  was  about  to  commit.  With  a  steady 
hand  she  raised  the  goblet  to  her  lips,  and  then  drank  the 
fatal  draught,  as  she  supposed  it,  to  the  last  dregs. 

"  I  must  sleep  now,"  she  said,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  I 
shall  never  wake  again."  And  throwing  herself,  dressed  as 
.she  was,  upon  her  couch,  she  soon  fell  into  a  deep  slumber. 

How  long  her  senses  were  steeped  in  oblivion,  she  could 
not  tell.  But  she  was  awakened  by  shrill  screams,  and 
started  to  her  feet  in  terror. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Are  those  the  cries 
of  the  condemned  ?  Am  I  indeed  in  another  world  ?  " 

But  louder  and  louder  came  the  shrieks,  and  now  she 
recognized  the  tones  as  those  of  the  old  duenna.  Deeply 
as  the  woman  had  wronged  her,  Magdalena's  feminine  na 
ture  could  not  be  insensible  to  her  distress.  She  sprang 
down  the  stairway,  and  now  stood  by  the  bedside  of  the 
duenna,  over  which  Juanita  was  already  bending. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  The  wine  !  the  wine !  the  flask  of  Xeres  !  the  Venetian 
goblet !  I  am  poisoned ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  as  she 
writhed  in  agony. 

The  truth  instantly  flashed  on  the  preternaturally-sharp- 
ened  intellect  of  Magdalena.  Her  own  immunity  from  pain 
confirmed  the  fatal  supposition. 

"  Good  God  ! "  she  cried,  in  tones  of  unutterable  anguish, 
« I  have  killed  her!" 

The  exclamation  caught  the  keen  ear  of  the  malignant 
hag,  suffering  as  she  was.  She  raised  herself  up  on  her 
elbow,  and  pointing  with  her  skinny  finger  to  the  horror- 
stricken  girl,  she  screamed,  — 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  you  have  murdered  me  !     Send  for  a  leech, 


THE   GOLDSMITH'S    DAUGIITHK.  21 

a  priest,  an  officer  of  justice!  Do  not  let  tliat  wretch  es 
cape  !  She  gave  me  a  poisoned  draught !  she  knew  it  — 
she  confesses  it !  Ha,  ha !  I  shall  not  die  unavenged  ! " 

These  fearful  words  caught  the  ear  of  Don  Antoniov  as, 
having  hastily  dressed  himself,  he  rushed  into  the  room. 
They  caught  the  ear,  too,  of  a  curious  servitor,  who  flew 
to  the  alguazil  before  he  summoned  priest  and  chirurgeon. 

In  less  than,  an  hour  afterwards,  the  old  beldam  had 
breathed  her  last,  but  not  before  she  had  made  her  false 
deposition  to  the  officer  of  justice  ;  not  before  she  had 
learned  that  a  paper  containing  evidence  of  poison  had 
been  found  in  Magdalena's  room ;  not  before  she  had  seen 
the  hapless  girl  arrested;  and  then  she  died  with  a  lie 
and  a  smile  of  hideous  triumph  on  her  lips. 

We  cannot  attempt  to  describe  the  anguish  of  the  old 
goldsmith,  and  the  despair  of  Juanita,  as  they  beheld  Mag- 
dalena  torn  from  their  arms  to  be  carried  before  a  judge 
for  examination,  and  thence  to  be  cast  into  prison.  Believ 
ing  in  her  innocence,  and  confident  that  it  would  be  estab 
lished  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  they  longed  for  the  dread 
ordeal  of  the  trial.  The  hour  came,  but  only  to  crush  their 
hearts  within  them.  The  guilt  was  fixed  by  circumstantial 
evidence  on  the  unfortunate  Magdalena.  Poor  Jnanita 
was  forced  to  testify  to  the  facts  of  a  quarrel  between  her 
cousin  and  the  hapless  duenna,  and  to  violent  language 
used  by  the  former  to  the  latter.  A  paper  which  had  con 
tained  poison  had  been  found  in  the  apartment  of  the 
accused.  Her  own  hasty  confession  of  guilt,  the  dying 
declaration  of  the  victim  added 

" confirmation  strong 

As  proofs  of  Holy  Writ." 

Magdalena  was  condemned  to  die.     In   that   supreme 

B 


22  TIIK    GOLDSMITH'S     DAUGHTER. 

hour,  when  her  protestations  of  innocence  had  proved  of  no 
avail,  the  film  fell  from  the  organs  of  her  mental  vision. 
Knowing  herself  guilty  of  premeditated  suicide,  she  saw 
in  the  established  charge  of  murder  a  dreadful  retribution. 
To  make  her  peace  with  Heaven  in  the  solitude  of  the 
prison  cell,  was  now  all  that  she  desired.  She  had  proved 
the  worthlessness  of  life,  and  now  she  prepared  herself  to 
die.  But  her  -tortures  were  not  ended.  4  Julio,  her  lost 
lover,  demanded  an  interview  with  her,  and  when,  after 
listening  to  her  sad  tale,  he  renewed  his  vows  of  love,  and 
expressed  his  firm  belief  in  her  innocence,  earth  once 
more  bloomed  attractive  to  her  eyes  ;  life  became  again 
dear  to  her  at  the  very  moment  she  was  condemned  to  sur 
render  it.  Her  execution  was  fixed  for  the  next  day,  al 
the  hour  of  noon.  At  that  hour,  she  was  to  take  her  last 
look  of  her  father,  her  cousin,  her  lover  —  the  last  look  of 
God's  blessed  earth. 

The  morning  came.  She  had  passed  the  night  in  prayer 
and  it  found  her  firm  and  resigned.  In  the  heart  of  a  true 
woman  there  lies  a  reserve  of  courage  that  shames  the 
prouder  boast  of  man.  She  may  not  face  death  on  the 
battle-field  with  the  same  defying  front ;  but  when  it  comes 
in  a  more  appalling  form  and  scene,  she  shrinks  not  from 
the  dread  ordeal.  When  man's  foot  trembles  on  the  scaf 
fold,  woman  stands  there  serene,  unwavering,  and  self- 
sustained. 

One  hour  before  the  appointed  time,  the  door  of  Mag- 
dalena's  cell  opened,  and  a  tall  figure,  wrapped  in  a  dark 
cloak,  with  a  slouched  hat  and  sable  plume,  stood  before 
her.  It  was  the  same  who  had  gazed  on  her  so  often  in 
the  church  of  San  Ildefonso,  the  same  who  had  encoun 
tered  Julio  in  the  narrow  street  with  proofs  of  her  alleged 
falsity. 


THE   GOLDSMITH'S    DAVGIITER.  23 

"  Is  the  hour  arrived  ?  "  asked  Magdalena,  calmly. 

"  Nay,"  replied  the  stranger,  in  a  deep  tone.  "  Can  you 
not  see  the  prison  clock  through  the  bars  of  your  cell  door? 
Look  ;  it  lacks  yet  an  hour  of  noon." 

"  Then,  sir,  you  come  to  announce  the  arrival  of  the  holy 
father,  —  of  my  friends." 

"  They  will  be  here  anon,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  1  do  not,"  said  Magdalena,  in  the  same  calm  tone  she 
had  before  employed,  "  see  you  now  for  the  first  time." 

"  Beautiful  girl ! "  cried  the  stranger ;  "  no  !  I  have  for 
months  haunted  you  like  your  shadow.  Your  fair  face 
threw  the  first  gleams  of  sunshine  into  rny  heart  that  have 
visited  it  from  early  manhood.  I  love  you,  Magdalena!" 

"  This  is  no  hour  and  no  place  for  words  like  these,"  re 
plied  the  captive,  coldly. 

"  Nay  !  "  cried  the  stranger,  with  sudden  energy.  "  Beau 
tiful  girl,  I  come  to  save  you  ! " 

"  To  save  me ! "  cried  Magdalena,  a  sudden,  wild  hope 
springing  in  her  breast,  —  to  save  me!  It  is  well  done. 
Believe  me,  I  am  innocent.  You  have  bribed  the  jailer  to 
open  my  prison  doors  ;  you  have  contrived  some  means  of 
evasion.  I  know  not  —  I  care  not  what.  I  shall  be  freed ! 
I  shall  clasp  my  father's  knees  once  more.  I  shall  go  forth 
into  the  blessed  air  and  light  of  heaven.  God  bless  you, 
whoever  you  are,  for  your  words  of  hope  ! " 

"You  shall  go  forth,  if  you  will,"  replied  the  stranger; 
"  but  openly,  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  man.  At  my  word 
the  prison  bars  will  fall,  the  keys  will  turn,  the  gates  will 
be  unbarred.  I  have  a  royal  pardon  ! " 

"  Give  it  me !  give  it  me  ! "  almost  shrieked  Magdalena. 

"  It  is  bestowed  on  one  condition :  that  you  become  my 
wife." 

"  That  I  become  your  wife  ! "  repeated  Magdalena,  as  if 


24  THE  GOLDSMITH'S    DAUGHTER 

she  but  half  comprehended  the  words.  "  Forsake  poor 
Julio  !  And  yet  the  bribe,  to  escape  a  death  of  infamy,  tc 
save  my  father's  gray  hairs  from  going  down  to  a  dishon 
ored  grave !  Speak !  who  are  you,  with  power  to  save  me 
on  these  terms  ?  " 

The  stranger  tossed  aside  his  sable  hat  and  plume,  and 
dropped  his  cloak,  and  stood  before  her  in  a  rich  dress  of 
black  velvet,  trimmed  with  point  lace,  a  broadsword  belted 
to  his  waist.  He  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  of  a  fine,  ath 
letic  figure,  and  handsome  face,  but  there  was  an  indescrib 
able  expression  in  his  dark  eyes,  in  the  stern  lines  about 
his  handsome  mouth,  that  affected  the  gazer  with  a  strange, 
shuddering  horror. 

"Peruse  me  well,  maiden,"  said  the  stranger.  "I  am 
not  deformed.  I  am  as  other  men.  If  there  be  no  glow 
in  my  cheek,  still  the  blood  that  flows  through  my  veins  is 
healthy  and  untainted.  Moreover,  though  I  be  not  noble, 
my  character  is  stainless.  If  to  be  the  wife  of  an  honest 
man  is  not  too  dear  a  purchase  for  your  life,  accept  my 
hand,  and  you  are  saved." 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  cried  Magdalena,  intense  curiosity 
mastering  her  even  in  that  moment. 

"  I  am  the  executioner  of  Madrid ! "  replied  the  stranger. 

Magdalena  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  uttered 
a  low  cry  of  horror. 

"  I  am  the  executioner  of  Madrid  ! "  repeated  he.  "  I 
have  never  committed  crime  in  my  life,  though  my  blade 
has  been  reddened  with  the  blood  of  my  fellow-creatures. 
Yet  no  man  takes  my  hand,  —  no  man  breaks  bread  or 
drinks  wine  with  me.  I,  the  dread  minister  of  justice,  a 
necessity  of  society,  like  the  soldier  on  the  rampart,  or  the 
priest  at  the  altar,  am  a  being  lonely,  abhorred,  accursed. 
Yet  I  have  the  feelings,  the  passions  of  other  iren.  But 


THE  GOLDSMITH'S  DAUGHTER.  25 

what  maiden  would  listen  to  the  suit  of  one  like  me  ? 
What  father  would  give  his  daughter  to  my  arms  ?  None, 
none !  And,  therefore,  the  state  decrees  that  when  the 
executioner  would  wed,  he  must  take  to  his  arms  a  woman 
doomed  to  death.  I  loved  you,  Magdalena,  hopelessly,  ere 
I  dreamed  the  hour  would  ever  arrive  when  I  might  hope 
to  claim  you.  That  hour  has  now  come.  I  offer  you  your 
life  and  my  hand.  You  must  be  my  bride,  or  my  victim ! " 

"  Your  victim !  your  victim ! "  cried  Magdalena.  "  Death 
a  thousand  times,  though  a  thousand  times  undeserved, 
rather  than  your  foul  embrace  ! " 

"  You  have  chosen.  Your  blood  be  on  your  own  head  ! " 
cried  the  executioner,  stamping  his  foot.  "You  die  un- 
shriven  and  unblessed  ! " 

"  At  least,  abhorred  ruffian,"  cried  Magdalena,  u  I  have 
some  little  time  for  preparation !  The  hour  has  not  yet 
arrived." 

"Has  it  not?"  cried  the  executioner.  "Behold  yon 
clock!" 

And  as  her  eyes  were  strained  upon  the  dial,  he  strode 
out  of  the  cell,  and  seizing  the  hands,  advanced  them  to  the 
hour  of  noon.  Then,  at  a  signal  from  his  hand,  the  prison 
bell  began  to  toll. 

"  Mercy,  mercy ! "  cried  Magdalena,  as  he  rejoined  her. 
*  Slay  me  not  before  my  time  ! " 

But  the  hand  of  the  ruffian  already  grasped  her  arm, 
and  he  dragged  her  forth  into  the  corridor. 

At  that  moment,  however,  a  loud  shout  arose,  and  a 
group  of  officials,  escorting  the  goldsmith  and  Julio,  waving 
a  paper  in  his  hand,  rushed  breathlessly  along  the  passage. 

"Saved,  saved!"  cried  Magdalena.  "Hither,  hither, 
father,  Julio!" 

The  executioner  had  wreathed  his  hand  in  her  dark, 
3 


26  THE  GOLDSMITH'S  DAUGHTER. 

flowing  tresses ;  already  his  dreadful  weapon  was  bran 
dished  in  the  air,  when  it  was  crossed  by  the  bright  Toledo 
blade  of  the  young  cavalier,  and  flew  from  his  grasp,  clang 
ing  against  the  prison  wall. 

"  Unhand  her,  dog ! "  cried  Julio,  "  or  die  the  death  ! " 
Sullenly  the  executioner  released  his  hold,  and  sullenly 
listened  to  the  royal  pardon. 

Magdalena  was  soon  beneath  her  father's  roof,  —  soon  in 
the  arms  of  her  cousin  Juanita.  Long  did  she  resist  the 
importunities  of  Julio ;  for  though  innocent  in  fact,  judicial 
ly  she  stood  convicted  of  a  capital  offence.  But  as  time 
rolled  on,  —  as  her  innocence  became  the  popular  belief,  — 
she  finally  relented,  accepted  his  hand,  and  beneath  the 
beautiful  sky  of  Italy,  forgot,  or  remembered  only  as  a 
dream,  the  perils  and  sorrows  of  her  early  life. 


PHILETUS  POTTS. 

A    BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

PHILETITS  POTTS  is  dead.  Like  Grimes,  ho  was  a 
"  good  old  man  ! "  A  true  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  he 
clung  to  many  of  the  fashions  of  a  by-gone  period  with  a 
pertinacity,  which,  to  the  eyes  of  the  thoughtless,  savored 
somewhat  of  the  ludicrous.  It  was  only  of  late  years  that 
he  relinquished  his  three-cornered  hat ;  to  breeches,  buc 
kles,  and  hair  powder  he  adhered  to  the  last.  He  was  also 
partial  to  pigtails,  though  his  earliest  was  shorn  from  his 
head  by  a  dangerous  rival,  who  cut  him  out  of  the  good 
"graces  of  Miss  Polly  Martine,  a  powdered  beauty  of  the 
past  century,  by  amputating  his  cue ;  while  his  latest  one 
was  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  humanity  —  but  thereby 
hangs  a  tale. 

If  Mr.  Potts  was  behind  his  age  in  dress,  he  was  in  ad 
vance  of  it  in  sentiment.  In  his  breast  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  never  curdled,  and  his  intelligent  mind  was  ever 
actively  employed  in  devising  ways  and  means  to  alleviate 
the  sufferings  of  humanity,  and  to  change  the  hearts  of  evil 
doers.  His  comprehensive  kindness  included  the  brute 
creation  as  well  as  mankind,  in  the  circle  of  his  active 
sympathy. 

We  remember  an  instance  of  his  sympathy  for  animals. 
We  had  been  making  an  excursion  into  the  country.  It 
Was  high  noon  of  a  sultry  summer  day ;  eggs  were  cooking 

27 


28  PHILETUS    POTTS. 

in  the  sun,  and  the  mercury  in  the  thermometer  stood  at 
the  top  of  the  tube.  Passing  out  of  a  small  village,  we 
passed  a  young  lady  pleasantly  and  coolly  attired  in  white, 
and  carrying  a  sunshade  whose  grateful  shadow  melted  into 
the  cool,  clear  olive  of  her  fine  complexion. 

Mr.  Potts  sighed,  for  she  reminded  him  of  Miss  Polly 
Martine  at  the  same  age ;  and  Polly  Martine  reminded 
him  of  parasols  by  some  recondite  association.  Mr.  Pott 
remembered  the  first  umbrella  that  was  brought  into  Bos 
ton.  He  always  carried  one  that  might  have  been  th< 
first,  it  was  so  venerable,  yet  whole  and  decent,  like  an  old 
gentleman  in  good  preservation.  It  was  a  green  silk  one, 
with  a  plain,  mahogany  handle,  and  a  ring  instead  of  a 
ferrule,  and  very  large.  Discoursing  of  umbrellas,  we 
came  upon  a  cow.  Mr.  Potts  was  fond  of  cows — grateful 
to  them  —  always  spoke  of  them  with  respect.  This  par 
ticular  cow  inhabited  a  small  paddock  by  the  roadside, 
which  was  enclosed  by  a  Virginia  fence,  and  contained  very 
little  grass,  and  no  provision  for  shade  and  shelter.  So 
the  cow  stood  in  the  sunshine,  with  her  head  resting  on  the 
fence,  and  her  tongue  lolling  out  of  her  mouth,  and  her 
large,  intelligent  eyes  fixed  on  the  far  distance,  where  a 
herd  of  kine  were  feasting  knee-deep  in  a  field  of  clover, 
beside  a  running  brook,  overshadowed  by  magnificent  wal 
nut  trees. 

"  Poor  thing ! "  said  Mr.  Potts ;  and  he  stopped  short 
and  looked  at  the  cow. 

The  cow  looked  at  Mr.  Potts.  One  had  evidently  mag 
netically  influenced  the  other. 

"  She  is  a  female,  like  the  lady  we  encountered,"  said 
Mr.  Potts,  "  but,"  added  he,  with  a  burst  of  feeling,  "  she 
has  no  parasol ! " 

The  assertion  was   indisputable.     It  was  a  truism, — 


PHILETUS    POTTS.  29 

cows  are  never  provided  with  parasols,  —  but  then  great 
men  are  famous  for  uttering  truisms,  and  we  venerated  Mr 
Potts  for  following  the  example. 

"  It  is  now  twelve  o'clock ! "  said  Mr.  Potts,  consulting 
his  repeater.  "  At  half  past  four,  the  shadow  of  the  but- 
tonwood  will  fall  into  this  poor  animal's  pasture.  Foui 
hours  and  a  half  of  torture,  rendered  more  painful  by  tht 
contemplation  of  the  luxuries  of  her  remote  companions  \ 
It  is  insufferable!" 

Then  Mr.  Potts,  with  a  genial  smile  on  his  Pickwickian 
countenance,  expanded  his  green  silk  umbrella,  mounted 
the  fence,  on  which  he  sat  astride,  and  patiently  held  the 
umbrella  over  the  cow's  head  for  the  space  of  four  and  a 
half  mortal  hours.  The  action  was  sublime.  I  regret  to 
add  that  the  animal  proved  ungrateful,  and,  when  Mr. 
Potts  closed  his  umbrella  on  the  shadow  of  the  buttonwood 
relieving  guard,  facilitated  his  descent  from  the  Virginia 
fence  by  an  ungraceful  application  of  her  horns  to  the 
amplitude  of  his  venerable  person. 

It  was  in  the  summer  following,  that  the  incident  I  am 
about  to  relate  occurred.  It  was  fly-time,  —  I  remember 
it  well.  We  were  again  walking  together,  when  we  came 
to  a  wall-eyed  horse,  harnessed  to  a  dog's  meat  cart,  and 
left  standing  by  his  unfeeling  master  while  he  indulged  in 
porter  and  pipes  in  a  small  suburban  pothouse,  much  af 
fected  by  Milesians.  The  horse  was  much  annoyed  by 
flies,  and  testified  his  impatience  and  suffering  by  stamping 
and  tossing  his  head.  Mr.  Potts  was  the  first  to  notice 
that  the  poor  animal  had  no  tail,  —  for  the  two  or  three 
vertebrae  attached  to  the  termination  of  the  spine  could 
hardly  be  supposed  to  constitute  a  tail  proper.  The  dis 
covery  filled  him  with  horror.  A  horse  in  fly-time  without 
a  tail !  The  case  was  worse  than  that  of  the  cow. 
3* 


BO  PHILETUS    POTTS. 

u  And  here  I  am ! "  exclaimed  the  great  and  good  man, 
ii  a  tone  of  the  bitterest  self-reproach,  "luxuriating  in  a 
pigtail  which  that  poor  creature  would  be  glad  of !  " 

With  these  words  he  produced  a  penknife,  and  placing  it 
in  my  hands,  resolutely  bade  me  amputate  his  cue.  I  did 
so  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  placed  the  severed  ornament 
in  the  hands  of  my  companion.  With  a  piece  of  tape  he 
affixed  it  to  the  horse's  stump,  and  the  gush  of  satisfaction 
he  felt  at  seeing  the  first  fly  despatched  by  the  ingenious 
but  costly  substitute  for  a  tail,  must  have  been,  I  think,  an 
adequate  recompense  for  the  sacrifice. 

I  think  it  was  in  that  same  summer  that  Mr.  Potts  laid 
before  the  Philanthropic  and  Humane  Society,  of  which  he 
was  an  honorable  and  honorary  member,  his  "  plan  for  the 
amelioration  of  the  condition  of  no-tailed  horses  in  fly- 
time,  by  the  substitution  of  feather  dusters  for  the  natural 
appendage,  to  which  are  added  some  hints  on  the  grafting 
of  tails  with  artificial  scions,  by  a  retired  farrier  in  ill 
health." 

During  the  last  year  of  his  life,  Mr.  Potts  offered  a  prize 
of  five  thousand  dollars  for  the  discovery  of  a  harmless  and 
indelible  white  paint,  to  be  used  in  changing  the  complexion 
of  the  colored  population,  to  place  them  on  an  equality  with 
ourselves,  or  for  any  chemical  process  which  would  pro 
duce  the  same  result. 

Mr.  Potts  proposed  to  substitute  for  capital  punishment, 
houses  of  seclusion  for  murderers,  where,  remote  from  the 
world,  in  rural  retreats,  they  might  converse  with  nature, 
and  in  the  cultivation  of  the  earth,  or  the  pursuit  of  botany, 
might  become  gradually  softened  and  humanized.  At  the 
expiration  of  a  few  months'  probation,  he  proposed  to  re 
store  them  to  society. 

A  criminal  is  an  erring  brother.     The  object  of  punish* 


PHILETUS    POTTS.  81 

ment  is  reformation,  and  not  vengeance,  Hence,  Mr.  Potts 
proposed  to  supply  our  prisoners  with  teachers  of  lan 
guages,  arts  and  sciences,  dancing  and  gymnastics.  Every 
prison  should  have,  he  contended,  a  billiard  room  and  bowl 
ing  saloon,  a  hairdresser,  and  a  French  cook.  Occasionally, 
accompanied  by  proper  officers,  the  convicts  should  be  taken 
to  the  Italian  Opera,  or  allowed  to  dance  at  Papanti's. 
The  object  would  be  so  to  refine  their  tastes  that  they 
should  shrink  from  theft  and  murder,  simply  because  they 
were  ungentlemanly.  Readmitted  to  society,  these  gentle 
men  would  give  tone  to  the  upper  classes. 

But  Mr.  Potts  has  gone  in  the  midst  of  his  schemes  of 
usefulness.  The  tailless  quadruped,  the  shedless  cow,  tho 
unwhitewashed  African,  the  condemned  felon,  the  unhappy 
prisoner,  actually  treated  as  if  he  were  no  gentleman,  in 
him  have  lost  9.  friend.  When  shall  we  see  his  like  again  ? 
Echo  answers,  Probably  not  for  a  very  long  period. 


THE  GONDOLIER. 

O,  rest  thee  here,  my  gondolier, 

Rest,  rest,  while  up  I  go, 
To  climb  yon  light  balcony's  height 

While  thou  keep'st  watch  below. 
Ah !  if  high  Heaven  had  tongues  as  well 

As  starry  eyes  to  see  — 
O,  think  what  tales  'twould  hare  to  tell 

Of  wandering  youths  like  me. 

MOORB. 

THE  traveller  of  to-day  who  visits  Venice  sees  in  that 
once  splendid  city  nothing  but  a  mass  of  mouldering  pal 
aces,  the  melancholy  remains  of  former  grandeur  and  mag 
nificence  ;  but  few  tokens  to  remind  him  that  she  was  once 
the  queen  of  the  Adriatic,  the  emporium  of  Europe.  But 
at  the  period  of  which  we  write  the  "sea  Cybele"  was  in 
the  very  zenith  of  her  brilliancy  and  power. 

It  was  the  season  of  carnival,  and  nowhere  else  in  Italy 
were  the  holidays  celebrated  with  such  zest  and  magnifi 
cence.  By  night  millions  of  lamps  burned  in  the  palace 
windows,  rivalling  the  splendors  of  the  firmament,  and  re 
flected  in  the  still  waters  of  the  lagoons  like  myriads  of 
stars.  Night  and  day  music  was  resounding.  There  were 
regattas,  balls,  and  festas,  and  the  entire  population  seemed 
to  have  gone  mad  with  gayety,  and  to  have  lost  all  thought 
of  the  Council  of  Ten,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  and  the  pon 
iards  of  the  bravoes. 

On  a  bright  morning  of  this  holiday  season,  a  group  of 

32 


THE    GONDOLIER.  33 

young  gondoliers,  attired  in  their  gayest  costume,  were 
Bitting  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  marble  steps  that  led  up 
from  one  of  the  canals,  waiting  for  their  fares.  A  cavalier 
and  lady,  both  gayly  attired,  and  both  masked,  had  just 
alighted  from  a  gondola  and  passed  the  boatman  on  their 
way  to  some  rendezvous. 

The  gondolier  who  had  conducted  them,  an  old,  gray- 
headed,  hard-looking  fellow,  had  pocketed  his  fee,  nodded 
his  thanks,  and  pushed  off  again  from  the  landing. 

"  There  goes  old  Beppo,"  said  one  of  the  gondoliers  on 
shore.  "  He  will  make  a  good  day's  work  of  it.  I  can 
swear  I  saw  the  glitter  of  gold  in  his  hand  just  now." 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  said  another.  "  Let  him  alone  for  making 
his  money.  And  what  he  makes,  he  keeps.  He's  a  close- 
fisted  old  hunks." 

"And  what  is  he  so  scrimping  and  saving  for?"  asked  a 
third.  "  He  is  unmarried  —  he  has  no  children." 

"  No  —  but  he  is  to  be  married,"  said  the  first. 

"  How !  the  man's  past  sixty." 

"  Yes,  comrade,  but  he  will  not  be  the  first  old  fellow  who 
has  taken  a  young  wife  in  his  dotage.  Have  you  never 
heard  that  he  has  a  young  ward,  beautiful  as  an  angel, 
whom  he  keeps  cooped  up  as  tenderly  as  a  brooding  dove 
in  his  tumble-down  old  house  on  the  Canal  Orfano  ?  No 
body  but  himself  has  ever  set  eyes  on  her  to  my  knowl 
edge." 

"  There  you're  mistaken,  Stefano,"  said  a  young  man, 
who  had  not  hitherto  spoken.  He  was  a  fine,  dashing, 
handsome  young  fellow  of  twenty-six,  in  a  holiday  suit  of 
crimson  and  gold,  with  a  fiery  eye,  long,  curling  locks,  and 
a  mustache  as  black  as  jet. 

"  Let's  hear  what  Antonio  Giraldo  has  to  say  about  the 
matter ! "  cried  his  companions. 


84  THB    GONDOLIER. 

"  Simply  this,"  said  the  young  man.  "  I  have  seen  the 
imprisoned  fair  one  —  the  peerless  Zanetta  —  for  such  is 
her  name.  She  is  lovely  as  the  day ;  and  for  her  voice  — 
why —  Gorpo  di  Bacco!  La  Gianina,  the  prima  donna, 
is  a  screechowl  to  my  nightingale." 

"  Your  nightingale  !  Bravo ! "  cried  Stefano,  in  a  tone 
of  mocking  irony.  "What  can  you  know  about  her 
voice?" 

"  Simply  this,  Master  Stefano,"  replied  the  young  gon 
dolier.  "  When  floating  beneath  her  window  in  my  gon 
dola,  I  have  addressed  her  in  such  rude  strains  of  melody 
as  I  best  knew  how  to  frame.  She  has  replied  in  tones  so 
liquid  and  pure  that  the  angels  might  have  listened." 

"  By  Heaven !  the  fellow's  in  love  ! "  cried  Stefano. 

"  Long  live  music  and  love  ! "  cried  Antonio.  "  What 
were  life  worth  without  them  ?  " 

•*  You're  in  excellent  spirits  !  "  cried  Stefano. 

"  And  why  shouldn't  a  man  be,  on  his  wedding  day  ?  " 

"  Mad  as  a  march  hare,"  cried  Stefano. 

"  Mark  me,"  said  Antonio.  "  That  girl  shall  never  marry 
old  Beppo  —  my  word  for  it.  She  hates  him." 

"  She'll  elope  with  some  noble,  then." 

"  To  be  cast  off  to  wither  when  he  is  tired  of  her  charms  ? 
No !  the  bridegroom  for  Zanetta  is  a  gondolier." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Stefano.  "  But  come,  com 
rades,  it  is  no  use  waiting  here.  Let  us  to  our  gondolas, 
and  row  for  St.  Marks.  You'll  come  with  us,  Antonio." 

"Not  I  —  my  occupation's  gone." 

"How  so?" 

"  I  have  sold  my  gondola  ?  " 

"  Sold  your  gondola." 

"  Ay  —  that  was  my  word." 

"But  why?" 


THE    GONDOLIER.  35 

"  I  wanted  money." 

"  Your  gondola  was  the  means  of  earning  it." 

"  Very  true  —  but  I  had  occasion  for  a  certain  sum  at 
once." 

"And  why  not  have  recourse  to  our  purses,  An  ioniD? 
Light  as  they  are,  we  would  have  made  it  up  by  contribu 
tions  among  us." 

"I  doubted  not  your  kindness — but  my  self-respect 
would  not  permit  me  to  ask  your  aid.  Good  by,  comrades ; 
we  shall  meet  again  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow.     Addio  !  " 

There  was  a  brilliant  masquerade  that  evening  at  the 
palazzo  of  Count  Giulio  Colonna.  Invitations  had  been 
issued  to  all  the  world,  and  all  the  world  was  present.  The 
finest  music,  the  richest  wines,  the  most  splendid  decora 
tions  were  lavished  on  the  occasion.  Perhaps,  among  that 
brilliant  company,  there  was  more  than  one  plebeian,  who, 
under  cover  of  the  masque,  and  employing  the  license 
common  at  these  saturnalia,  had  intruded  himself  unbidden. 

Old  Beppo,  the  gondolier,  was  in  attendance  at  the  ves 
tibule  of  the  palace,  feasting  his  avaricious  eyes  on  the 
glimpses  of  wealth  and  luxury  he  noted  within  dotfrs,  when 
a  gentleman  in  rich  costume,  and  wearing  a  mask,  beckoned 
him  to  one  side,  and  desired  a  moment's  interview. 

"  Do  you  know  me  ? "  was  the  first  question  asked  by 
the  stranger. 

"  No,  signer,"  replied  the  old  gondolier. 

"  Do  you  know  these  gentlemen  ?  "  asked  the  mask,  slip 
ping  a  couple  of  gold  pieces  into  the  miser's  hand. 

"  Perfectly,"  replied  the  boatman,  grinning.  "  What  ara 
your  lordship's  commands  ?  " 

"  Is  your  gondola  in  waiting  ?  * 


36  THE    GONDOLIER. 

"  Yes,  signor.     It  lies  below,  moored  to  the  landing." 

"  'Tis  well ;  hast  thou  any  scruples  about  aiding  in  a  love 
intrigue  ?  " 

"  None  in  the  world,  signor." 

"  Then  I'll  make  a  confidant  of  you." 

"  I  will  be  all  secrecy,  signor." 

"  Briefly  then,  gondolier,"  said  the  mask,  "  I  am  in  love 
with  a  very  charming  young  person." 

«  Well." 

"  Well  —  and  this  young  person  loves  me  in  return." 

"  Good  ;  and  you  are  going  to  marry  her." 

"  Not  so  fast,  gondolier.  She  has  an  old  guardian,  who, 
at  the  age  of  sixty,  or  more,  has  been  absurd  enough  — 
only  think  of  it  —  to  propose  to  marry  her  himself." 

u  The  absurd  old  fool ! "  cried  Beppo,  not  without  some 
twinges,  for  he  thought  of  his  own  projects  with  regard  to 
Zanetta. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  the  mask,  "  I  have  resolved  to  run 
away  with  her  to-night.  I  have  the  opportunity  —  for  she 
is  here  in  the  Palazzo  Colonna.  Now  will  and  can  you  aid 
me  ?  I  will  recompense  you  liberally." 

"  Ah !  my  lord  —  your  lordship  has  come  to  the  right 
market,"  said  the  old  sinner.  "  I'm  used  to  affairs  of  this 
kind.  Has  your  lordship  a  priest  engaged  ?  " 

"  I  have  not." 

"  Then  I  can  recommend  one.  Hard  by  is  a  chapel  ded 
icated  to  Our  Lady,  where  there  is  a  very  worthy  man,  ac 
customed  to  affairs  of  this  kind,  who  will  tie  the  knot  for  a 
moderate  fee,  without  asking  any  impertinent  questions." 

"His  name?" 

"  Father  Dominic." 

"  Good !  he  is  the  man  for  us  —  and  you  are  the  princtj 


THE    GONDOLIER.  37 

I  gondoliers.     Get  your  gondola  ready,  and  I  will  rejoin 
>  MI  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  the  lady  in  a  moment." 

Old  Beppo  hastened  to  prepare  his  gondola,  and  while 
so  doing,  muttered  to  himself,  — 

"  Well,  well  —  this  is  a  good  night's  work.  I'm  getting 
old,  and  I  must  soon  retire  from  business.  Every  stroke 
of  luck  like  this  helps  on  the  day  when  I  shall  call  Zanetta 
mine.  So,  there's  another  old  fool  to  be  duped  to-night ! 
Serve  him  right !  Why  don't  he  keep  his  treasure  under 
lock  and  key,  as  I  do  ?  But  men  will  never  learn  wisdom. 
Here  they  come." 

The  young  cavalier  reappeared  upon  the  marble  steps, 
leading  a  lady,  masked  and  veiled,  but  whose  elastic  step 
and  graceful  bearing  seemed  to  designate  her  as  one  mov 
ing  in  the  highest  circles.  The  young  lovers  took  their 
seats  in  the  centre  of  the  light  craft,  and  drew  the  curtains 
round  them,  while  Beppo  pushed  off,  and  his  vigorous  oar 
soon  sent  the  shallop  dancing  over  the  waters  of  the  lagoon. 
After  a  few  moments  the  motion  ceased,  and  Beppo  in 
formed  his  patron  that  they  had  arrived  at  their  place  of 
destination.  After  making  the  boat  fast,  the  gondolier 
landed,  and  entered  the  small  chapel  which  stood  on  th 
brink  of  the  canal.  In  a  few  moments  he  returned,  and 
informed  the  masked  cavalier  that  all  was  prepared.  The 
gentleman  then  handed  out  the  lady,  and  both  entered  the 
chapel,  Beppo  keeping  guard  without,  to  prevent  or  give 
notice  of  any  intrusion. 

The  marriage  ceremony  was  performed  very  rapidly  by 
Father  Dominic,  for  he  was  just  going  to  bed  when  the 
gondola  arrived,  and  was  duly  anxious  to  despatch  his  busi 
ness,  that  he  might  consign  his  wearied  limbs  to  rest. 

"  Is  it  all  over  ? "  whispered  Beppo,  in  the  ear  of  the 
cavalier,  as  he  came  out  with  his  lady. 

4  c 


88  THE    GONDOLIER. 

."  All  right,"  replied  the  mask,  in  the  same  tone  ^f  voice. 
**'  But  one  thing  perplexes  me.  I  have  no  place  that  I  can 
call  my  home,  to-night.  The  lady  will  be  missed;  my 
palace  will  be  watched  —  I  should  incur  the  risk  of  swords 
crossing  and  bloodshed,  if  I  sought  to  take  her  thither, 
to-night." 

"  If  my  house  were  not  so  very  humble,"  said  the  gon 
dolier,  hesitatingly. 

"  The  very  thing,"  said  the  mask,  joyfully.  "No  matter 
how  humble  the  roof,  provided  that  it  shelter  us.  To-mor 
row  we  can  arrange  matters  for  flight,  or  for  remaining." 

"  Then  get  into  the  gondola,  my  lord,  and  I  will  row  you 
thither  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  party  reembarked,  and  soon  reached  the  gondolier's 
residence.  After  fastening  his  craft,  he  unlocked  his  door ; 
and  striking  a  light,  conducted  his  distinguished  guests  up 
stairs.  As  he  passed  one  of  the  chamber  doors,  the  old 
gondolier,  addressing  the  masked  lady  as  he  pointed  to  it, 
said,  — 

"  You  have  made  a  moonlight  flitting,  to-night,  signora, 
and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  escape.  But  if  you  had  been 
as  safely  kept  as  a  precious  charge  I  have  in  this  room, 
you  would  never  have  stood  before  the  altar  to-night,  with 
your  noble  bridegroom." 

"You  forget  that  'love  laughs  at  locksmiths,'"  said  the 
cavalier. 

At  the  door  of  their  apartments,  the  old  man,  before  bid 
ding  them  good  night,  pausing,  said,  — 

"  Pardon  me,  signor,  but  I  would  fain  know  the  name 
of  the  noble  cavalier  I  have  had  the  honor  of  serving  to 
night." 

"  You  shall  know  to-morrow,"  replied  the  mask.  "  JBuona 
nottc,  Beppo.  Remember  it's  carnival  time." 


THE    GONDOLIER.  39 

The  next  morning  Beppo  was  up  betimes,  anxious  to 
/earn  the  mystery  connected  with  the  married  couple.  He 
was  not  kept  long  in  suspense.  His  patron  of  the  preced 
ing  evening  soon  made  his  appearance,  but  masked  as 
before. 

"  Beppo  ! "  said  the  stranger,  "  you  rendered  me  an  in  ' 
estimable  service  last  night." 

"  You  rewarded  me  handsomely,  signor,  and  I  shall  never 
regret  it." 

"  Give  me  your  word  then,  that  you  will  never  upbraid 
me  with  the  service  I  imposed  on  you." 

"  I  give  you  my  word,"  said  the  old  man,  surprised ; 
"  but  why  do  you  exact  it  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  the  stranger,  raising  his  mask,  "  I  am 
no  Venetian  noble,  but  simply  Antonio  Giraldi,  a  gondolier 
like  yourself." 

"  You  !     Antonio  Giraldi !     And  the  lady ?  " 

"Was  your  ward,  Zanetta.  You  locked  her  chamber 
door,  and  took  the  house  key  with  you  —  but  a  ladder  of 
ropes  from  a  lady's  balcony  is  as  good  as  a  staircase ;  and 
as  I  told  you  last  night,  l  love  laughs  at  locksmiths.' " 

Of  course  old  Beppo  stormed  and  swore,  as  irascible  old 
gentlemen  are  very  apt  to  do  in  similar  circumstances,  but 
he  ended  by  forgiving  the  lovers,  as  that  was  the  only  act 
in  his  power.  He  not  only  forgave  them,  but  gave  up  his 
gondola  to  the  stronger  hands  of  Antonio,  and  settled  a 
handsome  portion  on  Zanetta ;  nor  did  he  ever  regret  his 
generosity,  for  they  proved  grateful  and  affectionate,  and 
wei-3  the  stay  and  solace  of  his  declining  years.  Such  ia 
the  veritable  history  of  a  carnival  incident  of  the  olden 
days  of  Venice. 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  CORNWALLIS. 

A   MILITARY   &KETCH. 

IT  was  a  great  day  for  Dogtown,  being  no  other  than  the 
anniversary  of  the  annual  militia  muster ;  and  on  this  occa 
sion  not  only  the  Dogtown  Blues  were  on  parade  upon  the 
village  green,  but  the  entire  regiment  of  which  they  formed 
a  part,  commanded  by  the  gallant  Colonel  Zephaniah  Slor- 
key,  postmaster  and  variety-store  keeper,  was  to  engage  in 
a  sham  fight,  representing  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis. 
There  was  no  attempt  at  historical  costume,  but  it  was  un 
derstood  that  Slorkey,  with  his  cowhide  boots  and  rusty 
plated  spurs,  his  long,  swallow-tailed  blue  coat,  and  thread 
bare  chapeau  with  a  cock's  tail  feather  in  it,  mounted  on 
his  seventy-five  dollar  piebald  mare,  promoted  from  the 
plough  and  "  dump  cart,"  was  the  representative  of  Gen 
eral  Washington.  Major  Israel  Ryely,  his  second  in  com 
mand,  a  native  of  the  rival  village  of  Hardscrabble,  was  to 
figure  as  Lord  Cornwallis ;  and  the  selection  was  the  more 
appropriate,  since  the  private  relations  of  these  two  great 
men  were  any  thing  but  amicable,  and  they  espoused  op 
posite  sides  in  politics.  Dr.  Galenius  Jalap,  an  apothecary 
and  surgeon  of  the  regiment,  a  man  with  a  hatchet  face, 
hook  nose,  and  thin,  weeping  whiskers,  the  color  of  sugar 
gingerbread,  undertook  the  character  of  La  Fayette  at  very 
short  notice,  and  a  very  dim  conception  of  the  character 
he  had. 

40 


THE    SURRENDER    OF    CORNWALL1S.  41 

The  entire  population  of  Dogtown  and  Hardscrabble 
turned  out  to  witness  the  stupendous  military  operations  of 
the  day.  On  the  American  side  were  the  Dogtown  Blues, 
with  four  companies  of  ununiformed  militia,  armed  with 
rifles,  fowling  pieces,  and  rusty  muskets,  and  typifying  the 
continental  army.  Their  artillery  consisted  of  two  light 
field  pieces,  served  by  a  select  band  of  volunteers.  These 
pieces  were  posted  on  an  eminence  commanding  the  entire 
plain.  At  the  foot  of  this  hill,  Colonel  Slorkey  drew  up  his 
troops  in  line  of  battle,  his  left  wing  protected  by  an  im 
passable  frog  pond,  and  his  right  resting  on  a  large  piggery, 
whose  extent  prevented  the  enemy  from  turning  his  flank 
in  that  direction. 

On  the  descent  of  an  opposing  eminence,  likewise 
strengthened  by  two  guns,  Major  Ryely  placed  the  Hard- 
scrabble  Guards,  the  Sheet  Iron  Riflemen,  the  Mudhollow 
Invincibles,  the  Dandelion  Fireeaters,  and  the  Scrufftown 
Sharpshooters.  A  thousand  bright  eyes,  from  the  com 
manding  eminences,  looked  down  on  the  serried  ranks  of 
bayonets,  the  brazen-throated  artillery,  the  panoplied 
plough  horses,  the  plumed  commanders,  the  rustling  ban 
ners,  and  all  the  "  pomp,  pride,  and  circumstance  of  glori 
ous  war." 

Preliminaries  being  thus  settled,  the  commanding  officers 
put  spurs  to  their  horses,  and  met  in  the  centre  of  the  plain, 
there  saluting  with  their  scythe-blade  swords. 

"  Major  Ryely,"  said  the  colonel,  rising  in  his  stirrups, 
"  the  follerin'  are  the  odder  of  pufformances  :  we  open  with 
eour  artillery  —  you  reply  with  yourn.  Under  kiver  of 
eour  guns  we  advance  to  the  attack.  You  do  the  same  to 
meet  us — firm'  like  smoke.  Arter  a  sharp  scrimmedge 
you  retire  —  send  us  a  flag  of  truce  with  terms  —  and 
finally  lay  down  your  arms." 
4* 


42  THE    SURRENDER    OF    CORNWALLIS. 

The  major  bowed  till  his  ostrich  feather  touched  the 
mane  of  his  wall-eyed  plough  horse,  then  turned  bridle,  and 
regained  his  ranks  at  a  gait  something  between  a  stumble 
and  a  rack.  The  representative  of  General  Washington 
rejoined  his  men  at  a  hard  trot,  rising  two  feet  from  his 
saddle  at  every  concussion  of  his  bony  steed. 

"  Fellur  sogers ! "  roared  the  temporary  father  of  his 
country;  "yonder  stands  Cornwallis  and  his  redcoats-— 
only  they  haint  got  red  coats,  partickerlarly  them  in  blue 
s waller-tails.  We  air  bound  to  lick  'em  —  hurrah  for  our 
side !  Go  inter  'em  like  a  thousand  of  bricks  fallin'  off  'n  a 
slated  rufe.  The  genius  of  Ammerikin  liberty,  in  the  shape 
of  the  carnivorous  eagle,  soarin'  aloft  on  diluted  pillions, 
seems  to  mutter  E  Pluribus  Unum  —  we  are  one  of  'em ! 
Hail  Columby  happy  land !  Sing  Yankee  Doodle  that  fine 
tune  —  cry  havock !  and  let  looset  the  dogs  of  war." 

Then  commenced  the  horror  of  the  sham  fight.  The 
continental  guns  opened  in  thunder  tones.  The  British 
artillery  hurled  back  their  terrific  echoes.  Bang !  bang ! 
boom !  boom !  The  canopy  of  heaven  was  stained  with 
the  sulphurous  smoke.  The  drummers  rattled  away  on 
their  sheepskins  —  the  fifers  distended  their  cheeks  till  they 
resembled  blown  bladders.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  noise 
and  tumult,  the  undaunted  Slorkey,  and  the  indomitable 
Jalap,  rushed  to  and  fro,  with  clanking  scabbards,  and 
brandished  scythe  blades,  twin  thunderbolts  of  war. 

"  Forrard  march  ! "  roared  Slorkey.  With  the  yell  of 
demons,  his  fierce  followers  advanced  to  the  onset,  firing 
their  blank  cartridges  with  desperate  valor. 

Equally  alert  were  Major  Ryely  and  his  followers. 

"  Their  swords  were  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  were  one." 
Their  faces  begrimed  with  powder,  their  eyes   gleaming 


THE    SURRENDER    OF    CORNWALLIS.  43 

• 

with  ferocity,  they  descended  to  the  plain  —  an  avalanche 
of  heroes.  The  soul  of  Headly  would  have  swelled  within 
him  had  he  seen  them. 

For  more  than  one  hour  that  deadly  consumption  of 
blank  cartridges  endured,  and  then  Ryely  and  his  troops 
retired  in  good  order. 

"  Boys,"  said  the  major,  "  old  Slorkey  wants  us  to  gin 
out  —  send  a  flag  of  truce  —  a  white  pocket  handkerchief 
on  a  beanpole  —  and  propose  to  surrender.  But  it  goes 
agin  my  grit  for  Hardscrabble  to  cave  in  to  Dogtown,  when 
we  could  knock  the  hindsights  off  'em,  if  we  was  only  a 
mind  to." 

"  Hurray  for  the  major  !  "  responded  the  Hardscrabblers. 

"I've  got  a  grudge  agin  the  kurnil,"  said  the  major, 
"  and  if  you'll  stand  by  me,  I'll  take  it  out  of  'em.  What 
say?" 

"  Agreed  ! "  was  the  spontaneous  response. 

While  Slorkey  was  waiting  for  the  covenanted  flag  of 
truce,  he  saw  the  hated  Ryely  rise  in  his  stirrups,  and 
heard  his  stentorian  voice  roar  out  the  word,  "  Charge  ! " 

A  deafening  shout  answered  his  appeal.  In  an  instant 
Hardscrabble  and  its  allies  were  down  on  Dogtown  and  its 
defenders.  The  latter  stood  it  for  a  moment,  but  Ryely 
knocked  the  colonel  off  his  horse,  the  surgeon  had  his  nose 
pulled,  the  Dogtown  Blues  justified  their  name  by  their 
looks,  and,  seized  with  a  sudden  panic,  fled  —  fled  inglo- 
riously  from  their  native  training  field.  The  audacious 
outrage  was  consummated  —  history  was  violated  —  and 
General  Washington  was  beaten  by  Cornwallis. 

Dire  were  the  threats  against  Ryely  uttered  by  the  col 
onel,  as  he  was  carried  home  on  a  shutter ;  nothing  short 
of  a  court  martial  was  his  sligitest  menace.  But  no  court 


44         THE  SURRENDER  OP  CORNVTALLIS. 

martial  ever  took  place.  The  military  pride  and  glory  of 
Dogtown  were  wounded  to  the  quick ;  the  force  of  popular 
opinion  compelled  Slorkey  to  resign,  and  to  consummate  his 
chagrin,  his  treacherous  rival  was  chosen  colonel  of  the 
regiment.  So  unstable  are  human  honors  —  so  ungrateful 
are  republics. 


THE  THREE  BRIDES. 

TOWARDS  the  close  of  a  chilly  afternoon,  in  the  latter  part 
of  last  November,  I  was  travelling  in  New  Hampshire  on 
horseback.  The  road  was  solitary  and  rugged,  and  wound 
along  through  gloomy  pine  forests  and  over  abrupt  and 
stony  hills.  Several  circumstances  conduced  to  my  discom 
fort.  I  was  not  sure  of  my  way ;  I  had  a  hurt  in  my  bridle 
hand,  and  evening  was  approaching,  heralded  by  an  icy  rain 
and  a  cold,  searching  wind.  I  felt  a  sinking  of  spirits  which 
I  could  not  dispel  by  rapid  riding ;  for  my  horse,  fatigued  by 
a  long  day's  journey,  refused  to  answer  spur  and  whip  with 
his  usual  animation.  In  an  hour  after,  I  was  convinced  that 
I  had  mistaken  my  road,  and  night  surprised  me  in  the  for 
est.  I  had  been  in  more  unpleasant  situations ;  so  I  adopt 
ed  my  usual  expedient  of  letting  the  reins  fall  upon  my 
courser's  neck.  He,  however,  blundered  on,  with  his  nose 
drooping  to  the  ground,  stumbling  every  moment,  though 
ordinarily  as  surefooted  as  a  roebuck.  So  we  plodded  on 
for  a  mile,  while  the  landscape  grew  darker  and  darker. 
At  length,  finding  my  horse  less  intelligent  or  more  despair 
ing  than  myself,  I  resumed  the  rein,  and  endeavored  to  cheer 
my  brute  companion.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  stood  in  need  of 
something  exhilarating  myself.  The  sombre  air  of  the  eter 
nal  pines  struck  a  deathly  gloom  to  my  heart,  as  one  by 
one  they  seemed  to  rise  on  my  path,  like  threatening  genii 
extending  their  scathed  limbs  to  meet  me.  The  rain,  fina 

45 


46  THE    THREE    BRIDES. 

and  cold,  bedewed  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  I  question  if  a 
more  miserable  pair  of  animals  ever  threaded  their  way 
through  the  mazes  of  an  enchanted  forest.     I  thought  of 
the  comfortable  home  I   had  left  for  my  forlorn  pleasure 
excursion,  of  that  cheerful  hearth  around  which  my  family 
were  gathered,  of  wine,  music,  love,  and  the  thousand  en 
dearments  I   had  left  behind,  and   then  I  gazed  into  the 
recesses  of  the  shadowy  wood  that  closed  about  me,  almost  in 
despair.     I  began  to  dread  the  apparition  of  some  giant  in 
truder,  and  was  seriously  meditating  the  production  of  a  pair 
of  pistols,  when  my  quick  glance  caught  the  glimmer  of  dis 
tant  lights,  twinkling  through  some  opening  in  the  trees, 
and  darting  a  beam  of  hope  upon  the  wanderer's  soul.     My 
reins  were  instantly  grasped,  and  my  rowels  were  struck 
into  the  sides  of  my  charger.     He  snorted,  pricked  up  his 
ears,  erected  his  head,  and  sprang  forth  in  an  uncontrolla 
ble  gallop.     Up  hill  and  down  hill  I  pricked  my  gallant  gray ; 
and  when  the  forest  was  past,  and  his  hoofs  glinted  on  the 
stones  of  a  street  leading  through  a  small  village,  I  felt  an 
animation  that  I  cannot  well  describe.     A  creaking  sign 
board,  swinging  in  the  wind  on  rusty  irons,  directed  me  to 
the  only  inn  of  the  village.     It  was  a  two-story  brick  build 
ing,  standing  a  little  back  from  the  road.     I  drew  rein   at 
the  door,  and  dismounted  my  weary  nag.     My  loud  vocifer 
ations  summoned  to  my  side  a  bull  dog,  cursed  with  a  most 
unhappy  disposition,  and  a  hostler  whose  temper  was  hardly 
more  amiable.     He  took  my  horse  with  an  air  of  surly  indif- 
.  ference,  and  gruffly  directed  me  to  the  bar  room. 

This  apartment  was  tenanted  by  half  a  dozen  rough  farm 
ers,  rendered  savage  and  morose  by  incessantly  imbibing 
alcohol ;  and  by  the  proprietor  of  the  tavern,  a  bluff  man, 
with  a  portly  paunch,  a  hard  gray  eye,  and  a  stern  Caledo 
nian  lip.  He  welcomed  me  without  much  frankness  01 


THE    THREE     BRIDES.  47 

cordiality,  and  I  sank  into  a  wooden  settle,  eyed  by  the  sur 
ly  guests  of  mine  host,  and  the  subject  of  sundry  muttered 
remarks.  The  group,  as  it  was  lighted  up  by  the  strong 
red  glare  of  the  fire,  had  certainly  a  bandit  appearance, 
which,  however  delightful  to  a  Salvator  Rosa,  was  by  no 
means  inviting  to  a  traveller  who  had  sought  the  bosom  of 
the  hills  for  pleasure.  After  making  a  few  remarks,  which 
elicited  only  monosyllables  in  answer,  I  relapsed  into  si 
lence  ;  from  which,  however,  I  was  soon  aroused  by  the  en 
trance  of  the  surly  hostler,  who  in  no  very  gracious  manner 
informed  me  that  my  horse  was  lame,  and  likely  to  be  sick. 
This  intelligence  produced  a  visit  to  the  stable,  and  the 
conviction  that  I  could  not  possibly  resume  my  journey  on 
the  ensuing  day ;  which  was  somewhat  disagreeable  to  a 
man  who  had  taken  up  a. decided  prejudice  against  the  inn 
and  all  its  inmates. 

Having  succeeded  in  procuring  a  private  room  and  a  fire, 
I  ignited  an  execrable  cigar,  (ah,  how  unlike  thy  principes, 
dear  S.,)  and  endeavored  to  lose  myself  in  the  agreeable  oc 
cupation  of  castle  building  while  supper  was  preparing. 
Alas !  my  fancy  came  not  at  my  call.  I  had  lost  my  power  of 
abstraction  —  th?  realities  around  me  were  too  engrossing. 
Ere  the  dying  shriek  of  a  majestic  rooster  had  ceased  to 
sound  in  my  ear,  his  remains  were  served  upon  my  table, 
together  with  a  cup  or  two  of  very  villanous  gunpowder 
tea,  and  a  pitcher  of  cider,  with  coarse  bread  and  butter  ad 
libitum.  Supper  was  soon  despatched,  and  in  answer  to  a 
bell,  lightly  touched,  a  vinegar-visaged  waiting-maid,  of  the 
interesting  age  of  forty-five,  entered  and  removed  the  scarce 
ly  touched  viands  —  the  rudis  indigestaque  moles.  I  venT 
tured  to  address  her,  with  a  request  that  I  might  be  supplied 
with  a  few  books,  to  enable  me  to  while  away  the  evening. 
I  anticipated  a  literary  feast  from  the  readiness  with  which 


48  THE    THREE    BRIDES. 

she  rushed  from  the  loom;  but  she  reappeared,  bringing 
only  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  (very  greasy,)  a  volume  of 
tales  with  the  catastrophes  torn  out,  a  set  of  plays  consisting 
only  of  first  acts,  and  an  odd  number  of  the  Eclectic  Mag 
azine.  This  was  sufficiently  provoking ;  but  I  read  a  few 
pages,  and  tried  a  second  cigar,  and  made  the  tour  of  the 
apartment,  examining  a  family  mourning-piece  worked  in 
satin,  a  genealogical  tree  done  in  worsted,  and  a  portrait  of 
the  mutton-headed  landlord  and  his  snappish  wife.  I  count 
ed  the  ticks  of  the  clock  for  half  an  hour,  and  was  finally 
reduced  to  the  forlorn  expedient  of  seeing  likenesses  in  the 
burning  embers.  When  the  clock  struck  nine,  I  rang  for 
slippers  and  a  guide  to  my  bed  room,  and  the  landlord  ap 
peared,  candle  in  hand,  to  usher  me  to  my  sleeping  apart 
ment.  As  I  followed  him  up  the  creaking  staircase,  and 
along  the  dark  upper  entry,  I  could  not  help  regretting  that 
fancy  was  unable  to  convert  him  into  the  seneschal  of  a  ba 
ronial  mansion,  and  the  room  to  which  I  was  going  a  haunt 
ed  chamber.  It  seemed  as  if  my  surly  host  had  the  powei 
of  divining  what  was  passing  in  my  mind,  for  when  he  had 
ushered  me  into  the  room,  and  placed  the  candle  on  the  light 
stand,  he  said,  — 

"  I  hope  you'll  sleep  comfortable,  for  there  ain't  many  rats 
here,  sir.  And  as  for  the  ghost  they  say  frequents  this 
chamber,  I  believe  that's  all  in  my  eye,  though,  to  be  sure, 
the  window  does  look  out  on  the  burial  ground." 

"  Umph !  a  comfortable  prospect" 

"  Very,  sir ;  you  have  a  fine  view  of  the  squire's  ne\t 
tomb  and  the  poorhouse,  with  a  wing  of  the  jail  behind 
the  trees.  And  I've  stuck  my  second-best  hat  in  that 
broken  pane  of  glass,  and  there's  a  chest  of  drawers  to  set 
against  the  door ;  so  you'll  be  warm  and  free  from  intrusion, 
I  wish  you  good  night,  sir." 


THE    THREE     BRIDES.  49 

All  that  night  I  was  troubled  with  strange  dreams,  peo 
pled  by  phantoms  from  the  neighboring  churchyard  ;  but  a 
bona  fide  ghost  I  cannot  say  I  saw.  In  the  morning 
I  rose  very  early,  and  took  a  look  from  the  window,  but  the 
prospect  was  very  uninviting.  The  churchyard  was  a  bleak, 
desolate  place,  overgrown  with  weeds,  and  studded  with 
slate  stones,  bounded  by  a  ruinous  brick  wall,  and  having 
an  entrance  through  a  dilapidated  gateway.  One  or  two 
melancholy-looking  cows  were  feeding  on  the  rank  herbage 
that  sprang  from  the  unctuous  soil,  spurning  many  a  hicja- 
cel  with  their  cloven  hoofs.  But  afar,  in  the  most  distant 
part  of  the  field,  I  espied  the  figure  of  a  man  who  was  busi 
ly  occupied  in  digging  a  grave.  There  was  something  with 
in  that  impelled  me  to  stroll  forth  and  accost  him.  I  dressed, 
descended,  and  having  ordered  breakfast,  left  the  inn, 
jclambered  over  the  ruinous  wall,  and  stood  within  the  pre 
cincts  of  the  burial-place.  The  spot  had  evidently  been  used 
for  the  purposes  of  sepulture  for  a  number  of  years,  for  the 
ground  rose  into  numerous  hillocks,  and  I  could  hardly  walk 
a  step  without  stumbling  upon  some  grassy  mound.  Even 
where  the  perishable  gravestones  had  been  shattered  by  the 
hand  of  time,  the  length  of  the  elevations  enabled  me  to 
judge  of  the  age  of  the  deceased.  This  slight  swell  rose 
over  the  remains  of  some  beloved  child,  who  had  been  com 
mitted  to  the  dust  with  only  the  simple  ceremonies  of  the 
Protestant  faith,  bedewed  by  the  tears  of  parents,  and  blessed 
by  the  broken  voice  of  farewell  affection.  This  mound,  of 
larger  dimension,  was  heaped  above  the  giant  frame  of  man 
hood.  Some  sturdy  tiller  of  the  soil,  or  rough  dweller  in 
the  forest,  perhaps  cut  off  by  a  sudden  casualty,  had  been 
laid  here  in  his  last  leaden  sleep  — •  no  more  to  start  at  the  ris 
ing  beam  of  the  sun,  no  more  to  rush  to  the  glorious  excitement 
of  the  hunt,  no  more  to  pant  in  noonday  toil.  Over  the 
5 


60  THE    THREE     BRIDES. 

whole  field  of  the  dead  there  seemed  to  brood  the  spirit  of 
desolation.  Stern  heads,  rudely  chiselled,  from  the  grave 
stones,  and  frightful  emblems  met  the  eye  at  every  turn. 
Here  was  none  of  that  simple  elegance  with  which  modern 
taste  loves  to  invest  the  memorials  of  the  departed ;  no 
graceful  acacias,  or  nodding  elms,  or  sorrowing  willows  shed 
their  dews  upon  the  turf —  every  thing  spoke  of  the  bitter 
ness  of  parting,  of  the  agony  of  the  last  hour,  of  the  pass 
ing  away  from  earth  —  nothing  of  the  reunion  in  heaven  ! 

I  passed  on  to  where  the  grave  digger  was  pursuing  his 
accupation.  He  answered  my  morning  salutation  civilly 
enough,  but  continued  intent  upon  his  work.  He  was  a 
man  of  about  fifty  years  of  age,  spare,  but  strong,  with  gray 
hair,  and  sunken  cheeks,  and  certain  lines  about  the  mouth 
which  augured  a  propensity  to  indulge  in  dry  jest,  though 
the  sternness  of  his  gray  eye  seemed  to  contradict  the  tacit 
assertion. 

"  An  unpleasant  morning,  sir,  to  work  in  the  open  air," 
said  I. 

"  He  that  regardeth  fhe  clouds  shall  not  reap,"  replied 
the  grave  digger,  still  plying  his  spade.  "  Death  stalks 
abroad  fair  day  and  foul  day,  and  we  that  follow  in  his 
footsteps  must  prepare  for  the  dead,  rain  or  shine." 

"  A  melancholy  occupation." 

"  A  fit  one  for  a  moralist.  Some  would  find  a  pleasure  in 
it.  Deacon  Giles,  I  am  sure,  would  willingly  be  in  my 
place  now." 

"And  why  so?" 

"  This  grave  is  for  his  wife,"  replied  the  grave  digger, 
looking  up  from  his  occupation  with  a  dry  smile  that  wrinkled 
his  sallow  cheeks  and  distorted  his  shrunken  lips.  Perceiv 
ing  that  his  merriment  was  not  infectious,  he  resumed  his 
employment,  and  that  so  assiduously,  that  in  a  very  short 


THE    THREE     BRIDES.  51 

time  he  had  hollowed  the  last  resting-place  of  Deacon  Giles's 
consort.  This  done,  he  ascended  from  the  trench  with  a 
ligtness  that  surprised  me,  and  walking  a  few  paces  from  the 
new-made  grave,  sat  down  upon  a  tombstone,  and  beckoned 
me  to  approach.  I  did  so. 

"  Young  man,"  said  he,  "  a  sexton  and  a  grave  digger,  if 
he  is  one  who  has  a  zeal  for  his  calling,  becomes  something 
of  an  historian,  amassing  many  a  curious  tale  and  strange 
legend  concerning  the  people  with  whom  he  has  to  do,  liv 
ing  and  dead.  For  a  man  with  a  taste  for  his  profession 
cannot  provide  for  the  last  repose  of  his  fellows  without  tak 
ing  an  interest  in  their  story,  the  manner  of  their  death,  and 
the  concern  of  the  relatives  who  follow  their  remains  so 
tearfully  to  the  grave." 

"  Then,"  replied  I,  taking  a  seat  beside  the  sexton,  "  me- 
thinks  you  could  relate  some  interesting  tales." 

Again  the  withering  smile  that  I  had  before  observed 
passed  over  the  face  of  the  sexton,  as  he  answered,  — 

"  I  am  no  story  teller,  sir  ;  I  deal  in  fact,  not  fiction.  Yes, 
yes,  I  could  chronicle  some  strange  events.  But  of  all 
things  I  know,  there  is  nothing  stranger  than  the  melan 
choly  history  of  the  three  brides." 

"  The  three  brides  ?  " 

"  Ay.  Do  you  see  three  hillocks  yonder,  side  by 
side  ?  There  they  sleep,  and  will  till  the  last  trumpet 
comes  wailing  and  wailing  through  the  heart  of  these  lone 
hills,  with  a  tone  so  strange  and  stirring,  that  the  dead  will 
start  from  their  graves  at  its  first  awful  note.  Then  will 
come  the  judgment  and  the  retribution.  But  to  my  talc. 
Look  there,  sir  ;  on  yonder  hill  you  may  observe  a  little  iso 
lated  house,  with  a  straggling  fence  in  front,  and  a  few 
stunted  apple  trees  on  the  ascent  behind  it.  It  is  sadly  out 
of  repair  now,  and  the  garden  is  all  overgrown  with  weeds 


52  THE    THREE     BRIDES. 

and  bramoles,  and  the  whole  place  has  a  desolate  appear 
ance.  If  the  wind  were  high  now,  you  might  hear  the  old 
crazy  shutters  flapping  against  the  sides,  and  the  wind  tear 
ing  the  gray  shingles  off  the  roof.  Many  years  ago,  there 
lived  in  that  house  an  old  man  and  his  son,  who  cultivated 
the  few  acres  of  arable  land  which  belong  to  it. 

"  The  father  was  a  self-taught  man,  deeply  versed  in  the 
mysteries  of  science,  and,  as  he  could  tell  the  name  of  every 
flower  that  blossomed  in  the  wood  and  grew  in  the  garden, 
and  used  to  sit  up  late  of  nights  at  his  books,  or  reading  the 
mystic  story  of  the  starry  heavens,  men  thought  he  was 
crazed  or  bewitched,  and  avoided  him,  and  even  hated  him, 
as  the  ignorant  ever  shun  and  dread  the  gifted  and  enlight 
ened.  A  few  there  were,  and  among  others  the  minister, 
and  lawyer,  and  physician  of  the  place,  who  showed  some 
willingness  to  afford  him  countenance ;  but  they  soon 
dropped  his  acquaintance,  for  they  found  the  old  man  some 
what  reserved  and  morose,  and,  moreover,  their  vanity  was 
wounded  by  discovering  the  extent  of  his  knowledge.  To 
the  minister  he  would  quote  the  Fathers  and  the  Scriptures 
in  the  original  tongues  and  showed  himself  well  armed  Avith 
the  weapons  of  polemical  controversy.  He  astonished  the 
lawyer  by  his  profound  acquaintance  with  jurisprudence  ; 
and  the  physician  was  surprised  at  the  extent  of  his  medi 
cal  knowledge.  So  they  all  deserted  him,  and  the  minister, 
from  whom  the  old  man  differed  in  some  trifling  points  of 
doctrine,  spoke  very  slightingly  of  him  ;  and  by  and  by  all 
looked  upon  the  self-educated  farmer  with  eyes  of  aversion. 
Bat  he  little  cared  for  that,  for  he  derived  his  consolation 
from  loftier  resources,  and  in  the  untracked  paths  of  science 
found  a  pleasure  as  in  the  pathless  woods  !  He  instructed 
his  son  in  all  his  lore  —  the  languages,  literature,  history, 
philosophy,  science,  were  unfolded,  one  by  one,  to  the  en- 


THE    THREE    BRIDES.  53 

thusiastic  son  of  the  solitary.  Years  rolled  away,  and  the 
old  man  died.  He  died  when  a  storm  convulsed  the  face 
of  nature,  when  the  wind  howled  around  his  shattered 
dwelling,  and  the  lightning  played  above  the  roof;  and 
though  he  went  to  heaven  in  faith  and  purity,  the  vulgar 
thought  and  said  that  the  evil  one  had  claimed  his  own  in 
the  thunder  and  commotion  of  the  elements.  I  cannot  paint 
to  you  the  grief  of  the  son  at  his  bereavement.  He  was, 
for  a  time,  as  one  distracted.  The  minister  came  and  mut 
tered  a  few  cold  and  hollow  phrases  in  his  ear,  and  a  few 
neighbors,  impelled  by  curiosity  to  see  the  interior  of  the 
old  man's  dwelling,  came  to  his  funeral.  With  a  proud  and 
lofty  look  the  son  stood  beside  the  departed  in  the  midst  of 
the  band  of  hypocritical  mourners,  with  a  pang  at  his  heart, 
but  a  serenity  on  his  brow.  He  thanked  his  friends  for 
their  kindness,  acknowledged  their  courtesy,  and  then  strode 
away  from  the  grave  to  bury  his  grief  in  the  privacy  of  his 
deserted  dwelling, 

"  He  found,  at  first,  the  solitude  of  the  mansion  almost 
insupportable,  and  he  paced  the  echoing  floors  from  morn 
ing  till  night,  in  all  the  agony  of  woe  and  desolation,  vainly 
imploring  Heaven  for  relief.  It  came  to  him  first  in  the 
guise  of  poetic  inspiration.  He  wrote  with  a  wonderful 
ease  and  power.  Page  after  page  came  from  his  prolific 
pen,  almost  without  an  effort ;  and  there  was  a  time  when 
he  dreamed  (vain  fool !)  of  immortality.  Some  of  his  pro 
ductions  came  before  the  world.  They  were  praised  and 
circulated,  and  inquiries  were  set  on  foot  in  the  hope  of  dis 
covering  the  author.  He,  wrapped  in  the  veil  of  impene 
trable  obscurity,  listened  to  the  voice  of  applause^  more 
delicious  because  it  was  obtained  by  stealth.  From  the 
obscurity  of  yonder  lone  mansion,  and  from  this  remote 
5*  D 


54  THE    THREE    DRIDES. 

region,  to  send  forth  lays  which  astonished  the  world,  was, 
indeed,  a  triumph  to  the  visionary  bard. 

"  His  thirst  for  fame  was  gratified,  and  now  he  began  to 
yearn  for  the  companionship  of  some  sweet  being  of  the 
other  sex,  to  share  the  laurels  he  had  won,  to  whisper  con 
solation  in  his  ear  in  moments  of  despondency,  and  to  sup 
ply  the  void  which  the  death  of  his  old  father  had  occa 
sioned.  He  would  picture  to  himself  the  felicity  of  a 
refined  intercourse  with  a  highly  intellectual  and  beautiful 
woman,  and,  as  he  had  chosen  for  his  motto,  What  has  been 
done  may  still  be  done,  he  did  not  despair  of  success.  In 
this  village  lived  three  sisters,  all  beautiful  and  all  accom 
plished.  Their  names  were  Mary,  Adelaide,  and  Made 
leine.  I  am  far  enough  past  the  age  of  enthusiasm,  but 
never  can  I  forget  the  beauty  of  those  young  girls.  Mary 
was  the  youngest,  and  a  fairer-haired,  more  laughing  dam 
sel  never  danced  upon  a  green.  Adelaide,  who  was  a  few 
years  older,  was  dark  haired  and  pensive ;  but  of  the  three, 
Madeleine,  the  eldest,  possessed  the  most  fire,  spirit,  culti 
vation,  and  intellectuality.  Their  father  was  a  man  of 
taste  and  education,  and,  being  somewhat  above  vulgar 
prejudices,  permitted  the  visits  of  the  hero  of  my  story. 
Still  he  did  not  altogether  encourage  the  affection  which  he 
found  springing  up  between  Mary  and  the  poet.  AVhen, 
however,  he  found  that  her  affections  were  engaged,  he  did 
not  withhold  his  consent  from  her  marriage,  and  the  recluse 
bore  to  his  solitary  mansion  the  young  bride  of  his  affec 
tion's.  O  sir,  the  house  assumed  a  new  appearance  within 
and  without.  Roses  bloomed  in  the  garden,  jessamines 
peeped  through  its  lattices,  and  the  fields  about  it  smiled 
with  the  effects  of  careful  cultivation.  Lights  were  seen 
in  the  little  parlor  in  the  evening,  and  many  a  time  would 
the  passenger  pause  by  the  garden  gate  to  listen  to  strains 


THE   THREE   BRIDES.  55 

of  the  sweetest  music,  breathed  by  choral  voices  from  the 
cottage.  If  the  mysterious  student  and  his  wife  were  neg 
lected  by  their  neighbors,  what  cared  they?  Their  en 
dearing  and  mutual  affection  made  their  home  a  little  para 
dise.  But  death  came  to  Eden.  Mary  fell  suddenly  sick, 
and,  after  a  few  hours'  illness,  died  in  the  arms  of  her  hus 
band  and  her  sister  Madeleine.  This  was  the  student's 
second  heavy  affliction. 

"  Days,  months,  rolled  on,  and  the  only  solace  of  the  be 
reaved  was  to  sit  with  the  sisters  of  the  deceased,  and  talk 
of  the  lost  one.  To  Adelaide,  at  length,  he  offered  his 
widowed  heart.  She  came  to  his  lone  house  like  the  dove, 
bearing  the  olive  branch  of  peace  and  consolation.  Their 
bridal  was  not  one  of  revelry  and  mirth,  for  a  sad  recollec 
tion  brooded  over  the  hour.  Yet  they  lived  happily ;  the 
husband  again  smiled,  and,  with  a  new  spring,  the  roses 
again  blossomed  in  their  garden.  But  it  seemed  as  if  a  fa 
tality  pursued  this  singular  man.  When  the  rose  withered 
and  the  leaf  fell,  in  the  mellow  autumn  of  the  year,  Ade 
laide,  too,  sickened  and  died,  like  her  younger  sister,  in  the 
arms  of  her  husband  and  of  Madeleine. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  think  it  strange,  young  man,  that, 
after  all,  the  wretched  survivor  stood  again  at  the  altar. 
But  he  was  a  mysterious  being,  whose  ways  were  inscruta 
ble,  who,  thirsting  for  domestic  bliss,  was  doomed  ever  to 
seek  and  never  to  find  it.  His  third  bride  was  Madeleine. 
I  well  remember  her.  She  was  a  beauty,  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word.  It  may  seem  strange  to  you  to  hear  the  praise 
of  beauty  from  such  lips  as  mine  ;  but  I  cannot  help  expa 
tiating  upon  hers.  She  might  have  sat  upon  a  throne,  and 
the  most  loyal  subject,  the  proudest  peer,  would  have  sworn 
the  blood  within  her  veins  had  descended  from  a  hundred 
kings.  She  was  a  proud  creature,  with  a  tall,  commanding 


56  THE    THREE    BRIDES. 

form,  and  raven  tresses,  that  floated,  dark  and  cloud-like, 
over  her  shoulders.  She  was  a  singularly-gifted  woman, 
and  possessed  of  rare  inspiration.  She  loved  the  widower 
for  his  power  and  his  fame,  and  she  wedded  him.  They 
were  married  in  that  church.  It  was  on  a  summer  after 
noon —  I  recollect  it  well.  During  the  ceremony,  the 
blackest  cloud  I  ever  saw  overspread  the  heavens  like  a 
pall,  and,  at  the  moment  when  the  third  bride  pronounced 
her  vow,  a  clap  of  thunder  shook  the  building  to  the  centre. 
All  the  females  shrieked,  but  the  bride  herself  made  the 
response  with  a  steady  voice,  and  her  eyes  glittered  with 
wild  fire  as  she  gazed  upon  her  bridegroom.  He  remarked 
a  kind  of  incoherence  in  her  expressions  as  they  rode  home 
ward,  which  surprised  him  at  the  time.  Arrived  at  his 
house,  she  shrunk  upon  the  threshold :  but  this  was  the 
timidity  of  a  maiden.  When  they  were  alone  he  clasped 
her  hand  —  it  was  as  cold  as  ice !  He  looked  into  her 
face. 

"  Madeleine,"  said  he,  "  what  means  this  ?  your  cheeks 
are  as  pale  as  your  wedding  gown ! "  The  bride  uttered  a 
frantic  shriek. 

"My  wedding  gown!"  exclaimed  she;  "no,  no  —  this 
—  this  is  my  sister's  shroud !  The  hour  for  confession  has 
arrived.  It  is  God  that  impels  me  to  speak.  To  win  you 
I  have  lost  my  soul !  Yes  —  yes  —  I  am  a  murderess  ! 
She  smiled  upon  me  in  the  joyous  affection  of  her  young 
heart  —  but  I  gave  her  the  fatal  drug !  Adelaide  twined 
her  white  arms  about  my  neck,  but  I  administered  the  poi 
son  !  Take  me  to  your  arms  :  I  have  lost  my  soul  for  you, 
and  mine  must  you  be  ! " 

"  She  spread  her  long,  white  arms,  and  stood  like  a  ma 
niac  before  him,"  said  the  sexton,  rising,  in  the  excitement 
of  the  moment,  and  assuming  the  attitude  he  described ; 


THE    THREE    BRIDES.  57 

*  and  then,"  continued  he,  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  at  that  mo 
ment  came  the  thunder  and  the  flash,  and  the  guilty  woman 
fell  dead  upon  the  floor  ! "  The  countenance  of  the  narra 
tor  expressed  all  the  horror  that  he  felt. 

"  And  the  bridegroom,"  asked  I ;  "  the  husband  of  tho 
destroyer  and  the  victims  —  what  became  of  him  ?  " 

"  He  stands  before  you  !  "  was  the  thrilling  answer. 


CALIFORNIA  SPECULATION. 

MOSE  JENKINS  did  not  take  the  California  fever  when 
it  first  broke  out  ^  for  he  was,  as  he  acknowledged  himself, 
"slow-motioned,"  and  his  skull  was  of  such  formidable 
thickness,  that  it  required  a  good  many  months  for  an  idea 
to  penetrate  into  his  brain.  In  the  interim,  he  delved  and 
digged  away  on  a  corner  of  his  father's  farm,  having  leased 
the  land  of  the  old  gentleman,  and  purchased  his  time  of 
the  same  respectable  individual  for  the  purpose  of  working 
it.  But  to  work  a  farm  where  the  rocks  are  so  near  to 
gether,  that  the  sheep's  noses  have  to  be  sharpened  before 
they  can  graze  between  them,  is  not  a  very  profitable  busi 
ness  ;  and  Mose,  by  dint  of  hard  thinking,  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  there  might  possibly  be  some  other  occupa 
tion  less  laborious  and  quite  as  lucrative. 

"  Confound  these  granite  rocks ! "  he  exclaimed,  one  day, 
as  he  was  ploughing,  after  he  had  broken  hi?  trace  chains 
for  a  second  time ;  "  they  hev  another  kind  er  rocks  in  Cal- 
liforny.  Jehosaphat !  If  I  was  only  thar.  There  a  fellur 
hez  to  dig  ;  but  he  gets  pretty  good  wages  —  five  thousand 
dollars  a  month  is  middlin',  not  to  say  fair." 

In  short,  Mose  Jenkins  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  San 
Francisco,  having  got  the  wherewithal  to  carry  him  in  a 
packet  to  the  land  of  promise.  Fearful  of  opposition,  he 
communicated  his  project  neither  to  the  author  of  his  days, 
the  venerable  Zephaniah  Jenkins,  nor  to  the  beloved  of  his 

58 


CALIFORNIA    SPECULATION.  59 

heart,  Miss  Prudence  Salter,  a  cherry-cheeked  damsel  in  a 
state  of  orphanage ;  but  wrote  down  to  a  friend  in  Boston 
to  secure  a  passage.  He  reserved  his  communications  to 
the  very  last  moment,  when  he  was  all  ready  for  starting. 
His  father  gave  him  his  blessing ;  Prudence  was  more  diffi 
cult  to  manage. 

"  It's  a  breach  of  promise  case,"  said  she,  "  I  don't  be 
lieve  you  mean  to  marry  me  arter  all." 

"  Yes,  I  do,  ye  silly  critter,"  said  Mose.  "  I'll  come  and 
make  you  Mrs.  Jenkins  ;  but  I  want  to  get  the  rocks  first." 

"Ain't  there  rocks  enough  here?"  asked  Prudence, 
simply. 

"  Pooh !  I  mean  the  rocks  what  folks  carries  in  their 
pockets,  an'  treats  every  body  with  —  all  sollid  gold." 

"  I  don't  believe  half  them  stories,"  said  Prudence,  con 
temptuously. 

"  They're  as  true  as  gospil,"  said  Mose,  "  'cause  I  see  it 
in  a  paper.  And  there's  Curnil  Hateful  Slowboy,  that 
went  from  here  last  year  —  you'd  ort  to  know  him,  Pru 
dence,  coz  he  was  one  of  your  old  beaux  —  wall,  now,  they 
say  he's  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Calliforny.  I  tell  you 
I'm  bound  to  make  my  fortin'  there." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  Prudence,  resolutely. 

"  You  ! "  exclaimed  Mose. 

"  Yes.  I'm  bound  to  go,  too  ;  and  I'll  follow  you  in  the 
next  ship,  else  you'll  be  green  enough  to  marry  one  of  them 
'ere  Ingine  gals." 

"  Prudence,  you're  spunk ! "  exclaimed  Mose,  in  terms 
of  the  warmest  admiration.  "  Good  by !  And  I  swow  I'll 
marry  you  jest  as  soon  as  you  set  foot  in  Calliforny." 

Not  to  amplify  on  details,  our  adventurer  landed  there 
safely,  and  was,  of  course,  like  all  verdant  voyagers,  much 


60  CALIFORNIA    SPECULATION. 

surprised  at  the  tariff  of  prices  subjected  to  his  notice. 
The  porter  who  carried  his  trunk  to  the  hotel  charged  him 
ten  dollars ;  and  though  that  same  hotel  was  a  leaky  tent, 
a  plate  of  tough  beef  was  charged  seventy-five  cents,  and  a 
watery  potato  fifty.  Business  was  very  dull,  too,  at  the 
moment  of  his  arrival ;  the  accounts  from  the  mines  were 
disastrous,  and  every  thing  announced  an  approaching  cri 
sis.  Moses  confided  his  griefs  to  Colonel  Hateful  Slowboy, 
his  fellow-townsman,  who  was  really  one  of  the  richest  men 
in  California,  winding  up  with  lamentations  over  the  ex 
pected  arrival  of  Prudence,  whom  he  had  promised  to 
marry. 

"  What  kin  I  do  with  a  wife,"  said  he,  "  when  I  can't 
support  myself,  even  ?  " 

"  Very  true,"  said  the  colonel.  "  Now,  if  it  were  me,  the 
case  would  be  very  different." 

"  Prudence  done  all  the  courtin'  herself,  curnil,"  said  our 
hero,  sulkily.  "  I  never  should  have  offered  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  her.  I  kinder  like  'er  pretty  well,  though :  she's  a 
sort  of  pretty  nice  gal." 

"Well,  Mose,"  said  the  colonel,  "what  do  you  say  to 
giving  up  your  claim  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Mose,  pricking  up  his  ears. 

"  What'll  you  take  for  your  right  and  title  —  cash  down 
—  no  questions  asked  ?  " 

"  Wall,  I  dunnow,"  said  Mose,  opening  his  jackknife  and 
picking  up  a  chip.  "  Prudence  is  a  pretty  nice  gal,  as  you 
Baid,  curnil." 

"  As  you  said,  Mr.  Jenkins." 

"  Wall,  it's  all  the  same.  The  critter's  very  fond  of  me. 
and  so  be  I  of  her.  I  had  plaguy  hard  work,  I  tell  you,  t« 
get  her  consent." 


CALIFORNIA    SPECULATION.  61 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  colonel,  "  you  want  to  drive  a 
hard  bargain  with  me.  I'm  willing  to  give  you  a  fair  price, 
Bay  twenty  thousand  ;  but  I  don't  want  to  be  swindled." 

"  Say  twenty-five  thousand  and  take  her,  curnil." 

"No  —  twenty." 

"Cash  down?" 

«  Cash  down." 

"Done." 

"  The  money's  ready  whenever  Prudence  is." 

In  a  few  days  another  ship  from  Boston  came  in,  and 
Prudence  was  among  the  first  to  land.  Mose  met  her  with 
very  little  ardor,  the  colonel  remaining  in  the  background. 
After  some  little  conversation,  the  young  lady  reminded  her 
lover  of  their  agreement. 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Prudence ;  I've  swore  off —  I've  jined  the 
old  bachelor  society." 

"  But  you  promised  me,"  screamed  Prudence. 

"  Can't  help  that ;  you  can't  get  a  verdict  here  for  breach 
es  of  promise  ;  there  ain't  no  law  here  ;  every  body  goes  on 
his  own  individual  hook." 

"  You  cruel  monster,  why  can't  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"'Cause." 

"  'Cause  what  ?  " 

"  'Cause,"  said  Mose,  retreating  to  a  safe  distance,  "  I've 
traded  you  away!" 

Colonel  Slowboy  was  at  hand  to  catch  the  fair  one  as  she 
came  near  falling.  He  was  her  old  beau,  and  he  knew  the 
weak  points  of  her  character ;  moreover  he  had  splendid 
red  whiskers  and  a  million  of  money  —  she  married  him, 
partly  from  ambition  and  partly  from  revenge. 

The  moment  they  were  united,  Moses  set  sail  for  the 
United  States,  with  his  twenty  thousand  dollars,  and  ar- 
6 


62  CALIFORNIA    SPECULATION. 

rived  back  safely.  When  asked  how  he  had  accumulated 
such  a  sum  in  so  short  a  time,  he  answered,  "  trading,"  and 
when  questioned  about  the  prospects  of  the  El  Dorado, 
would  answer,  with  a  grin,  that  it  was  a  "  great  country  for 
women."  And  this  was  the  end  of  his  California  specu 
lation 


THE   FRENCH  GUARDSMAN. 

W/TH  the  army  of  Marshal  Saxe,  encamped  near  Fon« 
tenoy  ready  to  give  battle  to  the  allies,  there  were  not  a  fe\v 
ladies,  who,  impelled  by  a  chivalric  feeling,  or  personally 
interested  in  the  fate  of  some  of  the  combatants,  had  fol 
lowed  the  troops  to  witness  the  triumph  of  the  French  arms. 
Their  presence  was  at  once  the  incitement  and  reward  of 
valor,  for  what  soldier  would  not  fight  with  tenfold  gallantry 
when  he  knew  that  his  exploits  were  witnessed  by  the  eyes 
of  her  he  loved  as  wife,  mistress,  or  mother,  and  whose 
safety  or  honor,  perhaps,  depended  on  his  prowess  ? 

Among  those  most  distinguished  for  their  beauty  was 
the  youthful  Heloise,  the  lovely  daughter  of  the  Baron  de 
Clairville,  a  French  general  officer.  The  beaux yeux  of  the 
demoiselle  had  enslaved  more  than  one  young  officer,  but 
of  the  host  of  suitors  none  could  boast  with  reason  of  en 
couragement,  except  Henri  de  Grandville,  and  Raoul,  Count 
de  St.  Prix,  both  commanding  companies  in  the  French 
Guards.  Both  were  handsome  and  accomplished  young 
men,  and  both  had  yet  their  spurs  to  win  upon  the  field  of 
battle.  They  had  been  fast  friends  until  the  pursuit  of  the 
same  lady  had  created  a  sort  of  estrangement  between  them. 
Little  was  known  of  Henri  de  Grandville  previous  to  his 
reception  of  his  commission  in  the  guards.  He  had  been 
brought  up  by  his  mother  in  an  old  provincial  chateau,  and 
though  his  manners  and  education  were  those  of  a  gentle- 

63 


64  THE    FRENCH    GUARDSMAN 

man,  still  he  seemed  but  little  acquainted  with  the  world, 
and  above  all  ignorant  of  the  lighter  accomplishments  of 
the  courtier.  Perhaps  this  very  simplicity  of  manner  and 
frankness  of  character,  contrasting  so  strangely  with  the 
fashionable  affectations  of  the  court,  endeared  him  to  his 
comrades,  and  strongly  prepossessed  Heloise  de  Clairville 
in  his  favor.  His  rival  was  of  a  different  stamp.  Raoul 
de  St.  Prix  was  a  dashing,  brilliant  officer,  brave  as  steel, 
but  fond  of  dress,  reckless,  dissipated,  and  extravagant. 
Yet  his  faults  were  those  of  his  age,  and  belonged  to  the 
circumstances  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  The  Baron 
de  Clairville,  while  he  left  his  daughter  free  to  make  her 
election,  yet,  as  a  plain,  blunt  soldier,  rather  than  a  courtier, 
secretly  inclined  to  favor  the  pretensions  of  Henri.  Still, 
his  treatment  of  the  two  young  guardsmen  was  the  same, 
for  they  gave  equal  promise  of  military  gallantry. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Fontenoy  that  Henri 
sought  an  interview  with  Heloise,  who  occupied  a  gay  pa 
vilion  near  her  father's  tent.  He  found  her  alone  and 
weeping. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "  you  are  unhappy.  Will  you 
permit  a  friend  to  inquire  the  cause  of  your  sorrow  ?  " 

"  Can  you  ask  me,  Monsieur  de  Grandville !  Of  the 
thousands  of  brave  men  who  lie  down  to-night  in  peaceful 
slumber,  how 'many  sleep  their  last  sleep  on  earth!  How 
many  eyes,  that  will  witness  to-morrow's  sun  arise,  will  be 
closed  forever  before  it  goes  down  at  evening!  O, what 
a  dreadful  business  is  this  trade  of  war !  My  poor  father, 
he  never  cares  for  himself,  he  never  asks  his  men  to  go 
where  he  ,is  unwilling  to  lead.  I  fear  for  his  safety  in  the 
deadly  conflict  of  to-morrow." 

"  If  the  devotion  of  one  faithful  follower  can  save  him, 
lady,"  answered  Henri,  "  be  assured  of  his  safety.  I  would 


THE    FRENCH    GUARDSMAN.  65 

pour  out  the  blood  in  my  veins  as  freely  as  water  to  shield 
the  father  of  Heloise  de  Clairville." 

"  But  you  —  you  —  Henri  —  Monsieur  de  Grandville  — 
you  think  nothing  of  your  own  life." 

"  If '  I  fall,"  answered  the  young  soldier,  "  my  poor 
mother  will  weep  bitterly  for  her  only  son,  though  he  perish 
on  the  field  of  honor.  But  who  else  will  shed  a  tear  for  the 
poor  guardsman  ?  " 

"  Henri ! "  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  reproachfully,  and 
the  soft  eyes  she  raised  to  his  were  filled  with  tears. 

"Is  it  possible ?"  cried  the  young  soldier.  "Can  my 
fate  awaken  even  a  momentary  interest  in  the  heart  of  the 
loveliest,  the  gentlest  of  her  sex  ?  Ah,  why  do  you  render 
life  so  dear  to  me  at  the  moment  I  must  peril  it  ?  " 

"  Believe  me,"  answered  Heloise,  drying  her  tears,  "  that  I 
would  not  hold  you  back,  when  honor  beckons  you.  It  is 
to  such  hands  as  yours  that  the  honor  of  the  golden  lilies 
is  committed.  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  soldier,  and  though 
these  tears  confess  my  sex,  I  honor  bravery  when  it  is  dis 
played  in  a  good  cause.  I  honor  the  soldier  as  much  as  I 
detest  the  duellist." 

"  Then  listen  to  one  whose  sword  was  never  stained  with 
his  brother's  blood.  I  had  thought  to  go  to  the  field  with 
my  secret  concealed  in  my  own  breast,  but  something  im 
pels  me  to  speak  out.  I  love  you,  Heloise  —  I  have  dared 
to  love  —  to  adore  you." 

The  fair  girl  blushed  till  her  very  temples  were  crim 
soned  over  with  eloquent  blood.  The  young  soldier  threw 
himself  at  her  feet,  and  taking  the  fair  hand  she  aban 
doned  to  him,  covered  it  with  kisses;  nor  did  he  rise 
till  he  had  received  confirmation  of  his  new-born  hopes,  and 
knew  that,  for  good  or  ill,  the  heart  of  Heloise  was  irrevo 
cably  liif*.  Finally,  he  was  compelled  to  tear  himself  away^ 
6* 


66  THE   FRENCH    GUARDSMAN. 

but  he  carried  to  his  tent  a  feeling  of  delicious  joy  which 
steeled  his  mind  against  all  thought  of  the  chances  of  the 
morrow. 

The  moments  passed  away  in  delirious  revery,  but  at 
length  he  was  interrupted  by  St.  Prix. 

The  count  was  in  the  worst  of  humors  —  his  brow  was 
dark  with  passion,  and  he  threw  himself  into  a  seat,  and 
flung  his  plumed  hat  on  the  table  with  an  energy  that  be 
trayed  the  violence  of  his  emotions. 

"What's  the  matter,  Raoul?"  asked  Henri.  "Has 
Saxe  changed  his  plans  ?  Do  we  fall  back  instead  of 
advancing  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  God !  there  will  be  plenty  of  throat-cutting 
to-morrow,  and  the  French  Guards  have  the  post  of  honor." 

"  Thank  Heaven !  "  exclaimed  Henri,  joyfully. 

"  You  seem  in  excellent  spirits  to-night,  Captain  Henri 
de  Grandville." 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  of  you,  Captain  Raoul  de 
St.  Prix." 

"  Tell  me  the  cause  of  your  felicity." 

"  Enlighten  me  respecting  your  ill  humor." 

"  "Willingly,  on  condition  that  you  will  explain  your  sat 
isfaction." 

"  Agreed." 

"  Well,  then  —  you  know  the  marked  preference  — 
marked  preference,  I  say  —  always  shown  me  by  Made 
moiselle  Heloise  de  Clairville." 

"  I  will  not  dispute  with  you  —  go  on." 

"  You  must  have  been  blinded  by  absurd  hopes  not  to 
have  noticed  it ;  every  officer  in  the  army  looked  to  me  aa 
thcfutur  of  the  lady.  Well,  sir,  encouraged  and  led  on  by 
this  siren,  I  made  my  proposals  to  her  to-night.  Ventrt 


THE    FRENCH    GUARDSMAN.  67 

St.  Gris !  I  had  engaged  to  settle  wHh  my  creditors  out 
of  her  marriage  portion." 

"  Go  on  —  go  on  —  this  is  excellent,  St.  Prix." 

"  Well,  sir,  she  rejected  me  —  me,  the  Count  de  St.  Prix. 
A  prior  engagement,  forsooth  !  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  knew 
the  fellow !  Before  sunrise  he  should  have  more  button 
holes  in  his  doublet  than  ever  his  tailor  made." 

"  Captain  St.  Prix,"  replied  Henri,  "  you  have  not  far 
to  look.  In  me  behold  the  fortunate  suitor.  Come,  come ; 
confess  that  your  pride,  and  not  your  heart,  was  engaged 
in  the  affair.  The  game  was  fairly  played  ;  the  stakes  are 
mine." 

"  This  trifling  will  not  pass  muster  with  me,  sir,"  said  the 
count,  sternly.  "  Know  —  if  you  knew  it  not  before  — — 
that  Raoul  de  St.  Prix  never  fixed  his  eye  on  a  prize  that 
he  did  not  obtain,  or  missing  it,  failed  to  punish  his  success 
ful  rival.  You  are  a  soldier,  and  you  understand  me,  sir," 
he  added,  touching  his  sword  knot  with  his  gloved  hand. 

"  This  is  midsummer  madness,  Raoul,"  answered  Henri, 
with  good  temper.  "  Had  I  been  unsuccessful,  painful, 
fatal  as  the  disappointment  would  have  been,  I  should  have 
resigned  the  lady  to  you  without  a  struggle." 

"  That  shows  the  difference  between  a  gentleman  and  a 
parvenu"  retorted  St.  Prix. 

"  A  parvenu  I "  cried  De  Grandville,  starting  to  his  feet. 

"  Yes.  Who  knows  you  ?  Whence  came  you  ?  You 
are  an  intruder  in  our  ranks." 

"  I  bear  the  king's  commission." 

"Yes,  and  have  not  courage  enough  to  sustain  it.  I 
have  defied  you  to  your  teeth,  and  you  refuse  to  fight." 

"  My  principles  are  opposed  to  duelling.  In  the  words 
of  the  lady  whose  preference  honors  me,  *  I  honor  the  soldier 
as  much  as  I  detest  the  duellist.'  Besides,  has  not  the 


68  THE    FRENCH    GUARDSMAN. 

marshal  strictly  forbidden  duels  in  the  camp  ?  Conscience, 
reason,  authority,  every  consideration  forbids  my  acceptance 
of  the  challenge." 

"  Then,"  said  St.  Prix,  "  you  shall  submit  to  an  indignity 
that  disgraces  a  French  gentleman  forever."  And  raising 
his  sheathed  sword,  he  struck  De  Grandville  with  the  flaf 
of  the  scabbard. 

Henri's  sword  instantly  flashed  in  the  lamplight,  and  St 
Prix  drawing  his  rapier,  they  were  instantly  engaged  in 
deadly  combat.  Both  were  expert  swordsmen,  and  while 
one  fought  with  the  ferocity  of  hatred  'and  disappointment, 
the  arm  of  the  other  was  nerved  by  a  sense  of  wrong.  The 
metallic  ring  of  their  blades  wras  unintermitted,  for  neithei 
paused  to  take  breath,  but,  with  teeth  set  and  eyes  glar 
ing,  thrust,  parried,  advanced,  and  fell  back  in  the  fierce 
ardor  of  the  combat.  At  last,  De  Grandville,  seeing  an  op 
portunity,  sent  his  adversary's  blade  whirling  through  the 
air,  and  drawing  back  his  weapon,  prepared  to  thrust  it 
through  his  breast. 

"Strike!"  said  St.  Prix;  "you  have  vanquished  me  in 
love  and  in  arms,  and  there  is  nothing  left  me  but  to  die." 

"  Die,  then,  but  on  the  field  of  battle,  brave  Raoul,"  said 
de  Grandville,  "  and  since  I  have  deprived  you  of  your 
sword,  take  mine ;  I  shall  be  honored  by  the  exchange." 

"  Hold ! "  said  a  stern  voice ;  and  turning,  Henri  beheld 
with  confusion  the  countenance  of  Marshal  Saxe,  who, 
attended  by  a  file  of  musketeers,  had  entered  the  tent  at 
the  close  of  the  duel.  "  You  will  give  up  your  sword  to 
this  officer,  Captain  de  Grandville,"  added  he,  pointing 
to  a  commissioned  officer  by  whom  he  was  accompanied. 
"  Count  de  St.  Prix,  you  will  pick  up  your  weapon,  also, 
and  surrender  it.  Officers  who  forget  themselves  so  far  as 
to  seek  each  other's  lives  upon  the  eve  of  battle,  with  the 


THE   FRENCH    GUARDSMAN.  69 

enemy  before  them,  are  unworthy  of  command.     This  is 
matter  for  the  provost  marshal," 

And  the  old  soldier  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  eyed 
,he  offenders  angrily  and  sternly. 

"  May  it  please  your  excellency,"  said  St.  Prix,  "  I 
alone  deserve  to  suffer.  I  insulted  the  gentleman,  and 
forced  him  to  fight." 

"  Forced  him  to  fight  ?  "  said  the  marshal.  "  Hadn't  he 
read  the  orders  of  the  day  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  claim  your  clemency,  marshal,"  said  Henri. 
"  I  committed  this  fault  with  my  eyes  open.  But  a  man 
cannot  always  command  his  passions." 

"  That's  true,  my  lad.  But  what  were  you  fighting 
about?" 

"A  woman,  your  excellency,"  said  St.  Prix. 

"  A  woman  !  fools !  a  woman  that's  not  to  be  had  with 
out  fighting  for  isn't  worth  having.  Well,  well  —  boys 
will  be  boys.  I  pardon  you  on  two  conditions.  In  the  first 
place,  you  must  shake  hands."  Henri  and  Raoul  advanced 
and  joined  their  hands.  "  And  in  the  next  place,  that  you 
give  a  good  account  of  yourselves  to-morrow.  Sacre  nom 
de  Dieu  !  I  can  ill  spare  two  lads  of  spirit  from  the  guards. 
And  now,"  said  the  marshal,  rising,  after  restoring  their 
swords  to  the  officers,  "good  night,  gentlemen  ;  and  plenty 
of  hard  knocks  to-morrow." 

The  next  day  witnessed  one  of  those  terrible  encounters, 
whose  sanguinary  prints  make  a  more  indelible  impression 
on  the  page  of  history  than  the  records  of  the  more  gener 
ous  deeds  of  peaceful  life.  The  greatest  gallantry  was  dis 
played  on  both  sides,  and  on  the  part  of  the  French  no 
officers  were  more  distinguished  for  their  valor  than  the 
two  guardsmen  whose  encounter  on  the  previous  evening 
we  have  just  related.  Raoul  de  St.  Prix,  in  the  early  part 


70  THE   FRENCH    GUARDSMAN. 

of  the  engagement,  fell  sword  in  hand  at  the  head  of  hid 
company,  thus  meeting  with  honor  a  fate  he  had  earnestly 
desired.  Henri  de  Grandville,  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
found  himself  in  command  of  the  regiment,  every  officer 
of  higher  rank  having  fallen.  When  the  carnage  had 
ceased,  he  laid  a  stand  of  captured  colors  at  the  feet  of  the 
commander-in-chief,  and  was  complimented  by  Marshal 
Saxe  at  the  head  of  the  army,  receiving  assurance  that  his 
gallantry  should  be  at  once  reported  to  the  king. 

Flushed  with  triumph,  the  young  guardsman  flew  to  the 
presence  of  his  mother,  to  receive  her  embrace  and  recount 
in  modest  terms  the  story  of  his  deeds.  She  rejoiced  in  his 
safety,  and  sympathized  with  his  joy.  But  all  at  once,  as 
he  made  her  the  confident  of  other  hopes,  and  enlarged  on 
the  prospect  of  his  speedy  union  with  Heloise  de  Clairvillc, 
her  countenance  changed,  and  her  eyes  became  suffused 
with  tears. 

"  Dear  Henri,"  said  she,  "  I  knew  nothing  of  this.  "Why 
did  you  not  sooner  apprise  me  of  this  fatal  passion  ?  " 

"  Fatal  passion,  dear  mother !  Why  do  you  thus  char 
acterize  the  love  I  bear  to  the  purest,  the  most  beautiful  of 
her  sex  ?  " 

"  She  is,  indeed,  all  that  you  paint  her,  Henri ;  but  you 
must  learn  the  hard  task  of  renouncing  your  hopes.  You 
can  never  marry  her." 

"  And  why  so  ?     Do  you  refuse  your  consent  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  no.     But  the  Baron  de  Clairville " 

"  He  regards  me  with  a  favorable  eye.  I  have  reason  to 
think  he  knows  of  my  attachment  to  his  daughter,  and  ap 
proves  of  it.  Even  now,  his  congratulations  had  a  marked 
meaning,  which  could  hardly  be  ambiguous." 

"  But  a  fatal,  an  insurmountable  barrier  lies  between  you 
and  the  object  of  your  hopes." 


THE    FRENCH    GUARDSMAN.  71 

"  Do  not  keep  me  in  suspense,"  cried  the  young  soldier 
"  Explain  this  mystery,  I  implore  you." 

"  Have  you  fortitude  to  listen  to  a  dreadful  secret,  the 
possession  of  which  has  well  nigh  destroyed  the  life  of  your 
mother  ?  " 

"  God  will  give  me  strength  to  bear  any  stroke,"  replied 
Henri.  "  Thanks  to  your  instruction  and  example,  I  have 
schooled  myself  to  suffer,  unrepining,  whatever  Providence, 
in  its  infinite  wisdom,  sees  fitting  to  inflict.  If  I  have  a 
soul  for  the  dangers  of  the  field,  I  have  also,  I  think,  the 
courage  to  confront  those  trials  that  pierce  the  heart  with 
keener  agonies  than  any  the  steel  of  a  foeman  can  inflict. 
Fear  not  to  task  me  beyond  my  strength." 

"  I  will  be  as  brief  as  possible,"  said  the  lady.  "  Your 
father,  Henri,  was  of  noble  birth  and  possessed  of  fortune. 
My  own  share  of  the  world's  goods  was  small,  and  yet  it 
was  on  this  pittance  alone  that  we  were  sustained,  till  the 
exertions  of  a  generous  friend  procured  you,  under  the 
name  of  De  Grandville,  (my  maiden  name,)  a  commission 
in  the  guards." 

"  Then  De  Grandville  was  not  the  name  of  my  father." 

"No  —  he  belonged  to  the  noble  house  of  Montmorenci, 
The  early  years  of  our  married  life  were  passed  in  happi 
ness  that  I  always  feared  was  too  great  to  be  enduring.  It 
was  brought  to  a  bitter  and  miserable  end.  Deadly  ene 
mies —  for  the  best  and  noblest  have  their  foes  —  conspired 
against  your  father,  and  he  was  accused  —  falsely  accused, 
mark  me  —  of  treason  to  his  king  and  country.  I  will  not 
tell  you  by  what  forgery  and  perjury  he  was  made  to  ap 
pear  guilty  —  but  he  was  convicted  —  and  sentenced " 

"  Sentenced ! " 

"  Ay,  sentenced,  and  suffered.  He  died  by  the  hands  of 
Monsieur  de  Paris  !  " 


72  THE   FRENCH    GUARDSMAN. 

"  Monsieur  de  Paris  !  " 

"  The  executioner  ! " 

Henri  uttered  a  piercing  cry,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  He  remained  a  long  time  in  this  attitude,  hia 
frame  convulsed  by  the  agonies  of  grief,  while  his  mother 
watched,  with  streaming  eyes,  the  effect  of  her  communi 
cation.  At  length  he  removed  his  hands,  and  raised  his 
head.  His  countenance  was  deadly  pale,  —  the  only  indica 
tion  of  the  train  of  emotions  which  had  just  convulsed  him, 
—  but  his  look  was  firm  and  high. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  pressing  her  hand,  "  I  thank  you. 
Tt  was  better  to  learn  this  dreadful  secret  from  your  lips 
than  from  the  words  of  another.  Henceforth  we  will  live 
for  each  other  —  we  shall  have  a  common  sorrow  and  a 
common  fate.  I  pray  you  to  excuse  me  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  I  will  soon  rejoin  you,  but  I  have  first  a  duty  to 
perform." 

The  young  guardsman  passed  from  his  mother's  presence 
to  that  of  the  Baron  de  Clairville. 

"  Welcome,  welcome !  my  brave  boy,"  said  the  old  sol 
dier.  "  You  have  fairly  won  your  spurs." 

"  Sir,  you  flatter  me,"  replied  Henri,  gravely. 

"  Not  at  all.  Saxe  himself  says  that  more  distinguished 
gallantry  never  fell  beneath  his  notice." 

"  You  think  then,  baron,  I  can  claim  a  post  of  honor  and 
danger  in  the  next  engagement  ?  " 

"  You  can  lead  the  Forlorn  Hope  if  you  like." 

"  Enough,  baron.     I  came  to  ask  your  forgiveness." 

"  My  forgiveness  ! " 

"  Yes,  sir,  for  having  wronged  you  unconsciously  so  lately 
as  last  evening." 

" Wronged  me,  and  how,  strange  boy?  you  talk  in 
riddles." 


THE    FRENCH    GUARDSMAN.  73 

"  Last  evening,  sir,  on  the  eve  of  battle,  which  might 
well,  considering  what  followed,  have  been  my  last  of  life, 
1  sought  your  daughter.  Her  manner,  some  unguarded 
words  she  dropped,  emboldened  me  to  declare  a  secret 
which  I  had  hitherto  kept  fast  locked  in  my  breast.  I 
threw  myself  at  her  feet,  and  told  her  that  I  loved  her." 

"And  she " 

"  Confessed  that  she  loved  me  in  return." 

"  Henri !  my  boy  —  my  son  —  my  hero !  this  news  makes 
me  young  again !  it  gladdens  my  old  heart  like  the  shout 
of  victory  upon  a  stricken  field.  Is  this  your  offence  ?  I 
ireely  pardon  it." 

"  You  know  not  all,  baron.  You  knew  that  I  was  a  poor 
and  obscure  soldier  of  fortune." 

"  The  man  who  has  distinguished  himself  as  you  have 
done  this  day,  might  claim  the  hand  of  an  emperor's 
daughter.1" 

"  Baron,  between  me  and  Heloise  there  lies  a  black 
shadow  —  a  memory  —  a  horror,  which  forbids  our  meet 
ing.  The  very  name  I  bear  does  not  belong  to  me." 

"  And  how  may  you  be  named,  young  man,  if  not  De 
Grandville?" 

"  Henri  de  Montmorenci,"  replied  the  young  soldier. 

"  De  Montmorenci ! "  cried  the  baron.  "  That  is  a  noble 
and  historic  name.  The  house  of  Montmorenci  has  been 
well  represented  in  the  field." 

**  And  on  the  scaffold ! "  added  Henri,  with  deep  emo 
tion. 

"The  scaffold!"  exclaimed  the  baron,  "Yes,  yes;  1 
remember  now  a  dreadful  tragedy.  But  k?  suffered  un« 
justly." 

"  No  matter,"  answered  Henri.  "  The  ignominious  pun 
ishment  remains  a  stain  upon  our  escutcheon.  Men  wilj 
7 


74  THE    FRENCH    GUARDSMAN. 

point  to  me  as  the  son  of  a  condemned  and  executed  traitor- 
Could  I  forget  for  a  moment  the  tragedy  which  has  ren 
dered  my  poor  mother  an  animated  image  of  death,  the 
finger  of  the  world  would  recall  my  wandering  thoughts  to 
the  horrors  of  the  fact.  The  scaffold,  with  all  its  bloody 
paraphernalia,  would  rise  up  before  me." 

"  Henri,  you  are  too  sensitive,"  said  the  baron.  "  The 
best  and  bravest  of  France  (alas  for  our  history!)  have 
closed  their  lives  upon  the  scaffold.  I  believe  your  father 
innocent.  If  it  were  otherwise,  you  have  redeemed  the 
honor  of  your  race.  You  deserve  my  daughter's  hand  — 
take  her  and  be  happy." 

"  Make  her  the  companion  of  my  agony  !     Never." 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  the  baron ;  "  her  smiles  shall  dis 
pel  these  gloomy  fantasies." 

"No,  no!  urge  me  not,"  said  the  young  guardsman. 
"  Let  me  return  to  my  poor  mother.  She  has  need  of  all  my 
consolation.  I  renounce  forever  my  ill-fated  attachment. 
Heaven,  for  its  own  wise  purposes,  has  chosen  to  afflict  me. 
Farewell,  baron  ;  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness — your 
generous  friendship.  You  and  Heloise  will  soon  learn  that 
Henri  de  Montmorenci  is  no  more.  After  the  next  battle, 
if  you  seek  me  out,  you  will  find  me  where  the  French 
dead  lie  thickest  on  the  field." 

"  Noble-hearted  fellow ! "  cried  the  baron,  when  Henri 
had  left  him.  "  He  ought  to  be  a  field  marshal." 

"Marshal  Saxe  requests  your  immediate  presence, 
baron,"  said  an  aiderde-camp,  presenting  himself  with  a 
salute. 

"Monsieur  de  Baron,"  said  the  commander-in-chief, 
when  De  Clairville  had  obeyed  the  summons,  "I  have 
chosen  you  to  carry  my  despatches  to  the  king ;  you  w^ll 
find  yourself  honorably  mentioned  therein,  and  I  think  the 
favor  of  royalty  will  reward  your  merit." 


THE    FRENCH    GUARDSMAN.  75 

The  baron  bowed  low  as  he  received  the  despatches  from 
the  hand  of  the  marshal,  and  was  soon  ready  for  the  jour 
ney,  first  taking  a  hasty  farewell  of  his  daughter,  whom  he 
commended  to  the  care  of  Madame  de  Grandville,  (or 
rather  Montmorenci,)  during  his  absence. 

In  five  days  thereafter,  he  reported  himself  to  the  mar 
shal,  and  was  then  at  liberty  to  attend  to  his  private  con 
cerns.  He  found  Heloise  in  the  company  of  Henri  and 
his  mother,  and  the  gloom  depicted  on  their  countenances 
presented  a  singular  contrast  to  the  radiant  joy  that  spar 
kled  in  the  eyes  and  smiled  on  the  lips  of  the  genial  and 
warm-hearted  old  soldier.  He  kissed  his  daughter,  saluted 
Madame  de  Grandville,  and  then,  shaking  the  young  guards 
man  warmly  by  the  hand,  exclaimed,  — 

u  Good  news,  Henri ;  I  bring  you  a  budget  of  them. 
The  king  has  heard  of  your  gallantry,  and  inquired  into 
your  story." 

"  Heaven  bless  him  ! "  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"  The  memory  of  your  father,"  continued  the  baron,  "  has 
been  vindicated  by  a  parliamentry  decree  affirming  his  in 
nocence.  His  forfeited  estates  are  restored  to  his  family ; 
and  I  bring  you,  under  the  king's  seal,  your  commission  as 
full  colonel  in  the  French  Guards,  and  letters  patent  of 
nobility,  Count  Henri  de  Montmorenci ! " 

Henri  and  his  mother  were  nearly  overwhelmed  by  this 
good  news;  while  Heloise  clung  to  her  father's  arm  for 
support. 

"  No  fainting,  girl,"  said  the  happy  baron.  "  That  will 
never  do  for  a  soldier's  wife.  Here,  take  her,  count,  make 
her  happy  —  and  let  us  hear  no  more  of  your  volunteering 
on  Forlorn  Hopes  —  at  least,  during  the  honeymoon." 

We  need  not  add  that  the  baron's  injunctions  were  im« 
plicitly  obeyed. 


PERSONAL   SATISFACTION. 

MRS.  TUBES  had  been  a  very  fine  woman  —  she  was 
still  gocd  looking  at  the  period  of  which  we  write,  but 
then  — 

"  Fanny  \vas  younger  once  than  she  is  now, 
And  prettier  of  course." 

She  had  been  married  some  years.  Tubbs  was  a  gentle 
man  farmer,  and  lived  out  in  Roxbury,  when  land  was 
cheaper  there  than  it  is  now,  and  a  man  of  moderate  means 
could  own  a  few  acres  within  three  miles  of  Boston  State 
House.  On  retiring  from  the  wholesale  West  India  goods 
business,  he  had  purchased  a  little  estate  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Norfolk  House,  and  raised  vegetables  and  other  "  no 
tions"  with  the  usual  success  attendant  upon  the  agricul 
tural  experiments  of  gentlemen  amateurs  ;  that  is,  his  po 
tatoes  cost  him  about  half  a  dollar  a  peck,  and  his  quinces 
ninepence  apiece.  He  had  a  greenhouse  one  quarter  of  a 
mile  long,  and  kept  a  fire  in  it  all  the  year  round,  at  the 
suggestion  of  a  rascally  gardener,  whose  brother  kept  a 
wood  and  coal  yard.  We  could  tell  some  droll  stories  about 
Tubbs's  gardening,  if  they  were  to  the  purpose.  We  will 
mention,  however,  that  when  he  went  into  the  vegetable 
business  he  was  innocent  as  a  lamb,  and  verdant  as  one  of 
his  own  green  peapods,  and  of  course  he  made  some  curious 
mistakes.  He  was  not  aware  that  the  infant  bean,  like  the 

76 


PERSONAL    SATISFACTION.  7V 

pious  JEneas,  was  "  in  the  habit  of  carrying  its  father  on  its 
back,"  and  so  thinking  that  nature  had  made  a  mistake,  he 
reversed  the  order  of  the  young  sprouts,  and  reinterred  .the 
aged  beans.  This  was  one  of  his  many  blunders.  How 
ever,  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  gardening.  We  have 
said  he  was  innocent  as  a  lamb,  but  he  was  by  no  means  so 
pacific ;  on  the  contrary,  his  temper  was  as  inflammable  as 
gun  cotton  —  the  slightest  spark  would  set  it  in  a  blaze. 

To  return  to  Mrs.  Tubbs,  whom  we  have  most  ungallant- 
ly  left  in  the  lurch  since  the  first  paragraph.  She  had  been 
into  Boston  one  day,  shopping,  and  returned  home  in  the 
omnibus.  She  sat  between  two  young  men.  The  one  on 
her  right  was  modest  and  well-behaved,  while  the  other 
was  entirely  the  reverse.  He  might  have  been  drinking 

—  he  might  have  been  partially  insane  —  these  are  chari 
table  suppositions;  but  at  all  events,  he  had  the  imperti 
nence  to  address  Mrs.  Tubbs  in  a  low  tone,  audible  only  to 
herself.     He  muttered  some  compliment  to  her  appearance 

—  talked  a  little  nonsense  —  inoffensive  in  itself,  but  in 
tolerable  as  coming  from  a  stranger.     Mrs.  Tubbs  made  no 
reply,  but  she  was  glad  to  spring  from  the  conveyance 
when  the  driver  pulled  up  at  the  Norfolk  House.     To  her 
great  joy  she  espied  the  faithful  Tubbs,  attired  in  a  blouse, 
and  wheeling  a  barrow  full  of  gravel  down  Bartlett  Street, 
with  all  the  dignity  of  a  gentleman  farmer,  conscious  of 
being  a  useful,  if  not  an  ornamental,  member  of  society. 
She  accosted  him  with, — 

"  Tubbs,  love,  I've  got  something  to  tell  you." 

Tubbs  relinquished  the  handles  of  the  barrow,  and  sal 

down  in  the  gravel. 

"  Mr.  Tubbs  ! "  screamed  the  lady,  "  you've  got  your  be^ 

pantaloons  on." 

7* 


78  PERSONAL    SATISFACTION. 

*  Never  mind,  my  dear ;  out  with  your  story,  for  To. 
busy." 

"  Mr.  Tubbs !  I've  been  insulted  ! " 

Mr.  Tubbs's  head  instantly  became  as  red  as  one  of  his 
own  blood  beets. 

"  Who  is  the  miscreant  ?  "  he  yelled,  jumping  up. 

"  A  young  man  who  sat  next  to  me  in  the  omnibus." 

"  Describe  him  ! " 

"  Dark  hair  and  eyes,  with  a  black  stock,  light  waistcoat, 
dark-colored  coat  and  pantaloons " 

"  Which  way  did  he  go  ?  "  interrupted  Mr.  Tubbs. 

"  Into  the  hourly  office." 

« 'Tis  well !     Mrs.  T.,  I'll  have  his  heart's  blood  ! " 

"  Now,  T.,  be  calm  ! "  interposed  his  better  half. 

"Mrs.  T.,  I  will  be  calm,"  was  the  dignified  reply, 
!t  calm  as  the  surface  of  Mount  ^Etna,  on  the  eve  of  an 
eruption.  Farewell,  love,  for  a  moment.  Have  an  eye  to 
the  wheelbarrow  while  I  have  a  settlement  with  this  scoun 
drel  ! " 

With  these  words,  Tubbs  marched  up  the  hill.  He  en 
tered  the  hourly  office,  and  looked  round  him.  His  first 
glance  lighted  on  a  young  man  who  answered  the  descrip 
tion  given  by  Mrs.  Tubbs  ;  but  he  wished  to  make  assurance 
doubly  sure,  and  so  he  accosted  him  politely, — 

"  Fine  growing  weather,  sir." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger. 

"  Peas  are  doing  finely,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs. 

"Indeed!" 

"  If  the  weather  holds,  we  can  plant  corn  next  week." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Pray,  sir,"  continued  Tubbs,  "  did  you  come  out  in  the 
last  coach  ?  " 

"I  did,  sir." 


PERSONAL    SATISFACTION.  79 

"Was  there  a  lady  in  the  coach?" 

"  There  was,  sir.     I  recollect  a  lady  sat  next  to  me." 

"  You  scoundrel!  what  did  you  mean  by  insulting  my 
wifet" 

This  question  was  followed  by  a  blow,  which  ssnt  the 
young  gentleman  sprawling  on  the  floor.  Tubbs  stood  him 
up,  and  knocked  him  down  again  and  again,  like  a  man 
practising  on  a  single  pin  in  a  bowling  alley.  The  sufferer 
showed  some  fight,  but  Tubbs's  blood  was  up,  and  he  ham 
mered  down  all  opposition.  The  drivers  looked  en  in  ad 
miration  to  see  "  Old  Tubbs  vollop  the  chap  as  had  insulted 
his  wife,"  and  so  he  had  it  all  his  own  way.  He  dragged 
the  offender  out  of  the  office,  and  finished  him  off  on  the 
sidewalk.  He  was  engaged  in  this  laudable  occupation, 
when  his  better  half,  tired  of  mounting  guard  over  the 
wheelbarrow,  appeared  upon  the  field. 

"  Mr.  Tubbs  ! "  she  screamed. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  my  dear.  I've  only  done  one  side  of 
his  head." 

"  But,  Mr.  Tubbs  !     That  wasn't  the  man  !  " 

Tubbs  suspended  operations,  and  stood  fixed  in  horror. 
The  remains  of  the  injured  individual  were  taken  into  the 
hourly  office.  Then  came  remorse  and  apologies  unaccept 
ed  and  unacceptable  —  a  lawyer's  letter  —  an  action  for 
assault  and  battery,  and  heavy  damages.  The  real  offend 
er  had  escaped,  and  was  never  heard  of;  the  victim  was 
the  well-behaved  young  gentleman,  who  had  sat  on  Mrs. 
Tubbs's  right.  Her  description,  which  had  answered  for 
both,  had  occasioned  the  dilemma,  which,  while  it  proved 
an  expensive  lesson  to  Mr.  Tubbs,  was  also  an  effectual 
one,  and  saved  him  from  many  a  rash  and  hasty  action, 
and  induced  him  ever  afterwards  *o  adopt  Colonel  Crock 
ett's  golden  maxim,  "  Be  always  sure  you're  right,  then  go 
ahead" 


THE   CASTLE   ON  THE   RHINE. 

IN  one  of  those  old  feudal  castles,  which,  perched,  liko 
eagle  nests,  upon  the  picturesque  hills  that  overhang 

"  The  \vide  and  winding  Rhine," 

and  with  their  crumbling  and  ivy-grown  towers,  arrest  the 
eyes  of  the  delighted  traveller,  as  he  views  them  from  the 
deck  of  the  gliding  steamer,  there  dwelt,  some  years  ago, 
the  Baron  Von  Rosenburg  and  his  lady  Mathilde.  The 
baron  was  a  very  proud  man,  and  continually  boasting  of 
his  descent  from  a  "  long  and  noble  line  of  martial  ances 
tors,"  gentlemen  who  were  wont,  in  the  "  good  old  times," 
to  wear  steel  on  head,  back,  and  breast,  and  each  of  whom 
supported  a  score  of  retainers  in  his  feudal  castle.  Where 
the  money  comes  from  to  support  a  princely  housekeeping, 
when  the  head  of  the  family  has  no  property  or  employ 
ment,  is  sometimes  a  mystery  nowadays ;  but  no  such 
doubt  attached  to  the  resources  of  the  baron's  ancestors. 
These  gentlemen,  when  short  of  provisions,  would  sally 
forth  at  the  head  of  their  followers,  and  capture  the  first 
drove  of  cattle  they  encountered,  without  stopping  to  in 
quire  into  the  ownership.  Sometimes  they  made  excur 
sions  on  the  river,  and  levied  contributions  on  the  little  bark* 
of  traders  who  often  carried  valuable  cargoes  from  o» 
Rhine  town  to  another. 

80 


THE    CASTLE    ON    THE    RHINE.  81 

But  the  privileges  of  the  robber  knights  and  bandit  no 
bles  were  sadly  shorn  by  the  progressive  spirit  of  modern 
civilization.  With  a  total  disregard  of  the  immunities  of 
chivalry,  modern  legislators  declared  that  it  was  as  great  a 
crime  for  a  baron  to  seize  on  a  herd  of  cattle  as  for  a 
peasant  to  steal  a  sheep.  Hence  the  great  families  along 
the  Rhine  went  into  decay.  The  castles  were  dismantled, 
many  noble  names  died  out,  very  few  remained,  the  repre 
sentatives  of  the  ancestral  glory  of  olden  times. 

Among  them  was  the  baron.  He  had  been  a  soldier  and 
a  courtier  in  his  youth,  had  spent  some  time  abroad, 
and  was  about  forty  when  he  married  a  lady  of  the  same 
age,  and  settled  down  in  the  old  family  castle  of  Rosenberg. 
Here  he  lorded  it  over  the  surrounding  valley,  the  simple 
inhabitants  of  which,  though  exempt  from  all  feudal  obliga 
tions,  yet  in  some  sort  regarded  themselves  as  vassals  of 
the  baron.  They  made  him  presents  of  fish,  accompanied 
him  to  the  chase,  and  lent  him  a  willing  hand,  whenever  he 
required  assistance  at  the  eastle. 

The  baron,  though  he  had  the  wherewithal  to  live  com 
fortably  enough,  was  yet  a  poor  representative  of  the  race 
he  sprang  from.  His  army  consisted  of  a  few  farm  ser 
vants,  his  cavalry  of  a  ploughboy  on  a  cart-horse,  and  his 
navy  of  a  fishing  boat.  But,  on  the  whole,  he  was  happy. 
He  passed  his  days  either  in  trimming  his  vines  or  hunting, 
and  his  evenings  in  poring  over  mildewed  parchments  or 
books  of  heraldry,  hunting  up  long  pedigrees,  and  puffing  a 
monstrous  meerschaum  till  the  atmosphere  was  as  dense  as 
the  interior  of  a  smokehouse.  The  lady  Mathilde  em 
broidered  from  morning  till  night. 

They  had,  however,  a  common  source  of  grief.  Fate 
had  not  blessed  them  with  children.  The  lady  yearned  for 
the  companionship  of  a  daughter ;  the  baron  mourned  at 


82  THE    CASTLE    ON    THE    RHINE. 

the  prospect  of  the  extinction  of  his  name  for  want  of  a 
male  heir. 

It  was  while  pondering  on  this  subject  one  day,  as  they 
were  strolling  out  together,  that  the  baron  and  his  lady 
came  upon  the  cottage  of  an  old  soldier  named  Karl  Muel 
ler,  who  cultivated  a  little  vineyard  not  far  from  the  castle. 

The  old  man  was  seated  on  a  bench  before  his  door, 
smoking,  and  so  deeply  plunged  in  revery,  that  he  was  not 
aware  of  the  approach  of  visitors  till  the  baron  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  In  a  brown  study,  Karl  ?  "  said  the  baron. 

"  I  have  enough  to  think  about,"  returned  the  soldier 
"  I'm  getting  old,  and  one  thing  troubles  me." 

"  What's  that,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  baron,  I'm  not  alone  here." 

"Not  alone?" 

"  No,  sir  —  I  —  have  —  I  have  a  little  child  here." 

"  I  never  knew  you  were  married,  Karl." 

"  Nor  was  I,  your  honor.  For  I  always  thought  an  in 
fantry  soldier  ought  to-be  in  marching  order,  and  never 
have  more  baggage  than  he  could  carry  in  his  knapsack. 
No,  no  ;  the  child  is  none  of  mine." 

"  But  it  is  related  to  you,"  said  the  baroness. 

"  It  is  my  grandchild,  madam,"  replied  the  soldier,  fixing 
his  eyes  on  the  lady  ;  "  and  the  child  of  as  brave  a  man  as 
ever  faced  the  fire  of  the  enemy.  He  might  have  been  a 
field  marshal,  for  the  matter  of  that.  I  saw  him  at  Ober- 
stadt  when  the  hussars  went  down  to  charge  the  enemy's 
light  cavalry.  Faith,  madam,  they  made  daylight  shine 
through  their  ranks.  Their  curved  sabres  cut  them  up  as 
the  sickle  does  the  corn.  I  saw  him,  the  girl's  father, 
madam,  go  into  that  affair  with  the  hussars ;  but  he  came 
not  out  safe.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  his  uniform  all  dabbled 


THE    CASTLE    ON    THE    RHINE.  83 

with  blood,  as  he  lay  on  the  ground,  and  to  see  his  pale  lips 
quivering,  as  he  prayed  for  water.  I  gave  him  the  last 
drop  in  my  canteen,  and  I  swore  I'd  protect  the  child.  But 
I  fear  I'm  getting  too  old  for  the  task." 

The  baroness,  whose  eyes  were  filled  with  tearo,  turned 
to  her  husband,  and  asked,  — 

"Shall  we  not  give  a  shelter  to  the  child  of  a  brave 
man  ?  " 

The  baron  nodded,  and  the  proposal  was  accepted  by 
Karl,  who  retired  into  his  cottage,  and  immediately  reap 
peared,  bringing  forth  a  beautiful  girl  of  ten,  with  fair  hair 
and  blue  eyes,  and  a  form  of  graceful  symmetry. 

"  A  girl !  nonsense  ! "  said  the  baron,  in  a  tone  of  disap 
pointment.  But  the  baroness  folded  the  child  in  her  arms 
with  rapture.  The  child  responded  to  the  caresses  of  the 
lady  with  equal  ardor. 

So  the  little  Adelaide  was  soon  domesticated  in  the  cas 
tle  which  her  frolic  spirit  filled  with  gayety.  The  baroness 
renewed  her  youth  in  gazing  upon  hers,  and  the  baron 
never  scolded  her,  even  when  she  took  his  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth,  or  rummaged  among  his  parchments. 

As  she  grew  up  to  womanhood,  she  became  more  serious 
and  thoughtful.  She  was  anxious  to  learn  every  thing 
touching  her  father,  but  on  this  subject  the  baroness  could 
give  her  no  information  ;  and  Karl,  her  grandfather,  seemed 
equally  averse  to  speaking  of  it.  When  hard  pressed,  he 
promised  to  speak  out  at  some  future  time. 

One  day  she  was  summoned  in  great  haste  to  the  cottage 
of  old  Karl.  The  old  man  had  suddenly  been  taken  ill, 
anf.  required  the  presence  of  his  granddaughter.  It  was 
evident,  at  a  glance,  that  he  was  on  his  death  bed. 

"  Adelaide,"  said  he,  "  forgive  me,  before  I  die,  that  I 
may  depart  in  peace." 


84  THE  CASTLE  ON  THE  RHINE. 

"Forgive  you,  dear  grandfather!  am  I  not  deeply  in 
debted  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  reposed  more  confidence  in  you  ;  I  should 
have  spoken  to  you  about  your  parents." 

"  My  father  ?  "  asked  Adelaide. 

"  Was  a  brave  and  good  man.  But  of  your  mother  — 
your  good  mother  —  she  was " 

Here  a  spasm  interrupted  his  utterance,  and  he  lay  back 
on  his  pillow  gasping  for  breath.  After  a  brief  space  he 
seemed  to  revive  again,  and  made  strong  efforts  to  express 
himself,  but  his  breath  failed  him.  He  motioned  to  Ade 
laide  to  fetch  him  writing  materials,  and  while  she  held  a 
sheet  of  paper  on  a  book  before  him,  he  essayed  with  feeble 
fingers  to  trace  a  sentence  with  a  pen.  But  the  rapid  ap 
proach  of  death  foiled  all  his  endeavors  to  communicate  a 
secret  that  evidently  lay  close  to  his  heart ;  and  while  the 
young  girl  bent  over  him  in  an  agony  of  grief,  he  gently 
sighed  away  his  last.  The  baron  and  baroness  found  their 
protegee,  an  hour  afterwards,  still  sorrowing  by  the  bedside 
of  her  early  friend  and  protector.  With  gentle  violence 
they  removed  her  from  the  chamber  of  death,  and  took  her 
home  to  the  castle,  where  they  gave  directions  to  the  proper 
persons  to  take  charge  of  the  old  soldier's  remains,  and  inter 
them  with  that  decent  respect  which  was  due  to  his  charac 
ter  and  station.  Among  his  effects  was  found  a  will,  in 
which  he  made  Adelaide  his  heiress,  bequeathing  to  her  his 
little  landed  estate,  and  a  small  sum  in  gold,  the  produce  of 
his  toil  and  frugality.  This  event  cast  a  gloom  over  the 
spirits  of  the  young  maiden,  from  which,  however,  her  re 
ligious  persuasions,  the  attention  of  her  friends,  and  the 
elasticity  of  her  youth,  eventually  relieved  her. 

The  old  castle  on  the  Rhine  was  gay  once  more,  when 
Kudolph  Ernstein,  a  nephew  of  the  baron,  a  gay  young 


THE    CASTLE    ON   THE   RHINE.  &6 

captain  of  hussars,  whose  gallantry  and  beauty  had  given 
him  reputation  at  Vienna,  came  to  pay  a  long  visit  to  his 
uncle.  He  was  a  high-spirited  and  accomplished  young 
man,  had  served  with  distinction,  was  a  devoted  admirer  of 
the  ladies,  and  one  of  those  military  Adonises  who  are  born 
to  conquest.  He  was  charmed  to  find  domesticated  beneath 
the  old  roof  tree  so  fair  and  lovable  a  girl  as  Adelaide, 
and  of  course  did  his  best  to  render  his  society  agreeable  to 
her.  He  sang  to  her  songs  of  his  own  writing,  to  airs  of 
his  own  composition,  accompanied  on  his  guitar  ;  he  told  her 
tales  of  strange  lands  that  he  had  visited,  of  cavalry  skir 
mishes  in  which  he  had  participated,  sketched  her  favorite 
scenes  in  pencil,  and  offered  to  teach  her  the  newest  dances 
in  vogue  at  Vienna.  He  was  a  dangerous  companion  to  a 
young  girl  whose  imagination  needed  but  a  spark  to  kindle 
it,  and  for  a  time  she  indulged  in  the  wild  hope  that  she  had 
made  a  conquest  of  Rudolph.  But  then  her  reason  told 
her,  that  even  if  he  loved  her,  it  would  be  impossible  for  a 
young  man  of  family  to  offer  his  hand  to  an  almost  portion 
less  girl,  about  whose  origin  a  veil  of  mystery  seemed 
wrapped.  The  names  of  her  parents,  even,  had  never  been 
disclosed  to  her,  by  the  lips  of  probably  the  only  man  who 
knew  her  history,  and  those  lips  were  now  cold  and  mute  in 
death.  Hence  the  little  gleam  of  sunshine  which  had  for  a 
moment  penetrated  her  heart  was  speedily  quenched  in  a 
deeper  darkness  than  that  which  reigned  in  it  before,  and 
she  could  not  help  viewing  the  visit  of  Rudolph  as  an 
ominous  event. 

One  morning,  she  was  witness  to  a  scene  which  dashed 
out  the  last  faint  glimmering  of  hope.  They  were  all 
seated  at  a  huge  oaken  table,  from  which  the  servants  had 
just  removed  the  apparatus  of  the  morning  meal. 

*  Rudolph,"  said  the  baron,  after  lighting  his  pipe,  —  an 
8  F 


86  THE    CASTLE    ON    THE    RHINE. 

operation  of  great  solemnity  and  deliberation,  and  taking  a 
few  whiffs  to  make  sure  that  its  contents  were  duly  ig 
nited,  — "  Rudolph,  do  you  know  why  I  sent  for  you  to 
Rosenburg  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  replied  the  hussar,  "  I  suppose  it  was  be 
cause  you  really  have  a  sort  of  regard  for  an  idle,  good-for- 
nothing  fellow,  whose  redeeming  quality  is  an  attachment  to 
a  very  kind  old  uncle,  and  whose  nonsense  and  good  spirits 
are  perhaps  a  partial  compensation  for  the  trouble  he  gives 
every  body  in  this  tumble-down  old  castle." 

"  Tumble-down  old  castle ! "  exclaimed  the  baron,  in  high 
dudgeon,  the  latter  part  of  the  soldier's  speech  cancelling 
the  former;  "  why,  you  jackanapes,  it  will  stand  for  centu 
ries.  It  resisted  the  cannon  of  Napoleon,  and  it  bids  de 
fiance  to  the  battering  of  time.  Yes,  sir,  Rosenburg  will 
stand  long  after  your  great-great-grandchildren  are  super 
annuated." 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  be  blessed  in  the  way  you  hint  at, 
uncle,"  said  the  soldier,  carelessly.  "  I  am  likely,  for  aught 
I  see,  to  die  a  bachelor." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  the  baron.  "  What's  to  become  of 
your  family  name  ?  Do  you  think  I  will  allow  it  to  die  out, 
like  the  Pumpernickels,  the  Snaphausens,  and  the  Ollen- 
stoffenburgers  ?  No,  boy.  I  sent  for  you  to  tell  you  that 
I  have  contracted  for  your  hand  with  my  friend  the  Baron 
Von  Steinberg." 

"  Really,  sir,  you  dispose  of  me  in  a  very  cavalier  way." 

"  That's  because  you're  too  careless  or  lazy  to  look  out 
for  yourself,"  retorted  the  baron.  "  But  then  you  can  have 
no  possible  objection  to  the  present  match.  The  fair  Julia 
is  just  twenty  —  eyes,  you  dog  —  lips,  you  rascal  —  a  shape, 
you  blockhead,  to  bewitch  an  anchorite.  And  then  she  haa 
the  gelt  —  the  money,  my  boy." 


THE    CASTLE    ON   THE   RHINE.  87 

•*  A  commodity  of  which  I  happen  to  be  minus,"  said  the 
soldier. 

"  Arn't  you  my  heir  ?  "  asked  the  baron. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  the  hussar,  with  a  slight  sigh. 

He  glanced  at  Adelaide,  but  he  read  no  sentiment  on  hex 
calm  and  pensive  countenance. 

"  She's  as  cold  as  a  glacier  on  the'Donderberg ! "  he  mut 
tered  to  himself. 

"  Well,  sir  —  you  haven't  given  me  an  answer,"  said  the 
baron,  impatiently. 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  said  the  soldier,  jumping  up,  and 
snatching  his  fowling-piece,  "it's  a  glorious  morning  for 
sport ;  and  I'm  much  mistaken  if  I  don't  add  a  half  dozen 
brace  of  birds  to  your  bill  of  fare  to-day." 

"  But  the  fair  Julia  Von  Steinberg  ?  "  said  the  baron. 

"Oil  forgot,"  said  Rudolph.  "  I'm  entirely  in  your 
hands.  Do  with  me  as  you  please.  My  profession,  you 
know,  has  given  me  habits  of  obedience.  I  suppose  I  must 
sacrifice  myself.  Good  morning." 

And  away  he  went  to  enjoy  his  sport  upon  the  moun 
tains. 

"Young,  lovely,  and  rich!"  said  poor  Adelaide,  with  a 
sigh,  when  she  had  regained  her  room.  If  this  be  true,  she 
is  indeed  worthy  of  Ernstein.  He  will  love  her  —  they 
will  be  happy  —  and  I  —  I  can  but  wish  them  joy,  and 
die." 

There  was  great  preparation  in  the  castle  Von  Rosen- 
burg,  that  day  week,  for  the  reception  of  the  prospective 
bride.  Every  thing  was  cleaned  and  furbished  up,  from 
battlement  to  dungeon  keep.  An  old  flag  with  the  family 
arms  was  hoisted  from  the  rampart,  and  the  butler,  who  Lad 
served  in  the  wars  of  the  Alliance,  mounted  an  old  swivel 
on  the  ramparts  with  the  intention  of  firing  it  off,  on  the 


88  THE    CASTLE    ON    THE    RHINE. 

approach  of  the  old  family  carriage  of  the  Von  Steinbergs, 
Captain  Rudolph  Von  Ernstein,  in  his  splendid  hussar  uni 
form,  looked  the  beau  ideal  of  a  soldier  lover.  Even  the 
baron  was  rejuvenated  by  a  court  suit  that  had  not  seen 
the  light  since  the  nuptials  of  Maria  Louisa  and  the  Em 
peror  Napoleon. 

At  last  the  carriage  appeared.  The  villagers  and  hang 
ers  on  of  the  establishment  hurrahed  in  the  court  yard  as 
it  drew  up,  the  old  butler  applied  the  match  to  the  priming 
of  the  swivel  and  was  prostrated  by  the  discharge,  while 
the  baron  came  near  tumbling  over  his  sword  in  his  eager 
ness  to  welcome  his  old  friend  and  his  old  friend's  daughter. 

The  Baron  Von  Steinberg  alighted  and  bowed  his  thanks  ; 
while  Captain  Rudolph  handed  out  the  lovely  Julia.  As 
her  light  foot  touched  the  pavement,  Adelaide  advanced  to 
offer  a  bouquet ;  at  one  glance  she  appreciated  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  her  rival,  and  dropping  the  flowers,  retired  to  an 
obscure  corner  of  the  court  yard  to  conceal  her  anguish  and 
despair. 

The  festive  train  swept  into  the  castle.  All  was  gayety 
and  uproar  within  doors.  The  baron  could  scarce  contain 
the  transports  of  his  joy ;  and  Von  Steinberg  was  equally 
excited.  The  excitement,  however,  seemed  to  be  too  much 
for  the  fair  Julia,  whose  cheek  was  paler  than  the  satin 
robe  she  wore,  while  Rudolph,  perhaps  from  sympathy, 
was  uneasy  and  agitated. 

At  last  the  bell  of  the  castle  was  rung  for  dinner,  and 
the  party  proceeded  to  the  great  hall.  But  Adelaide  did 
not  make  her  appearance.  Search  was  made  for  her ;  she 
was  not  in  her  apartment.  An  angry  flush  overspread  the 
brow  of  old  Rosenburg  at  this  announcement,  and  after  some 
minutes  passed  in  waiting  for  her  appearance,  he  ordered 
dinner  to  be  served  without  her.  The  repast  was  not  a 


THE    CASTLE    ON    THE    RHINE.  89 

very  gay  one,  notwithstanding  the  efforts  of  the  master  of 
the  house  to  make  it  so.  Night  had  long  fallen,  and  Ade 
laide  did  not  reappear.  The  family,  from  being  vexed, 
now  became  alarmed,  and  it  was  determined  to  go  in  search 
of  her.  Rudolph  and  the  baron  went  forth  with  two  ser 
vants  and  torches  to  scour  the  woods,  after  vainly  searching 
through  the  castle.  One  of  the  men  went  on  in  advance. 
He  had  been  gone  but  a  short  time  when  he  came  back 
speechless  with  grief  and  amazement.  Rudolph  and  his 
uncle  pushed  forward  through  the  thickets,  and  on  the  banks 
of  a  small  stream,  dammed  up  to  form  a  lake,  they  found 
the  bonnet  and  shawl  of  the  missing  girl. 

"  Good  God ! "  exclaimed  Rudolph,  "  she  has  destroyed 
herself.  I  have  noticed  a  strange  wildness  in  her  appear 
ance  for  several  days  past ;  in  a  fit  of  mental  aberration 
she  has  wandered  away,  and  here  found  her  death." 

A  piercing  scream  was  heaid  at  this  moment.  The 
baroness,  who  had  followed  them,  had  recognized  the  gar 
ments  of  Adelaide. 

"  My  child !  my  child ! "  she  shrieked,  "  my  own  !  my 
beautiful !  she  is  no  more." 

"  This  is  worse  and  worse,"  said  the  baron,  wringing  his 
hands.  "  This  will  make  us  all  mad." 

But  at  this  moment  a  boat  was  seen  approaching.  It 
was  the  miller,  who  brought  with  him  the  body  of  Adelaide, 
dripping  as  it  had  been  drawn  from  the  water.  He  laid 
her  fair  form  upon  the  bank.  The  baroness,  wh«  could  not 
be  restrained,  threw  herself  beside  her,  and  kissed  her  pale 
lips.  Rudolph,  too,  seized  the  cold  hands. 

"  She  lives  ! "  he  exclaimed.     "  She  is  not  lost  to  us  !  " 

"  Rudolph  —  dear  Rudolph ! "  murmured  the  poor  girl. 

"  My  child !  my  child !  she  lives  1 "  cried  the  baroness. 
8* 


90  THE    CASTLE    ON    THE    RHINE. 

And  it  was  indeed  so.  She  had  thrown  herself  into  the 
water,  indeed,  but  the  miller,  who  happened  to  be  at  hand, 
l*ad  flown  to  her  rescue,  and  she  was  now,  by  the  united 
efforts  of  her  friends,  restored  to  consciousness. 

"Dear,  dear  Adelaide!"  cried  the  baroness;  "your  life 
repays  me  now  for  all  my  sufferings.  Yes,  dearest,  you 
are  my  own,  my  only  child.  Yes,  baron,"  she  added,  no 
ticing  the  incredulous  expression  of  her  husband  —  "  the 
supposed  death  of  a  daughter  has  wrung  from  a  mother's 
heart  the  despairing  cry  that  betrayed  her  secret.  In  for 
mer  days,  I  married,  secretly,  Colonel  Schonfeldt,  a  brave 
soldier  of  the  emperor,  against  whom  my  parents  cherished 
a  deadly  enmity.  He  fell  upon  the  field  of  battle,  and  this 
poor  girl,  the  fruit  of  our  love,  was  committed  to  the  hands 
of  strangers,  till  such  time  as  I  could  take  her  to  my 
heart.  I  avow  it  without  shame,  nor  can  you,  baron,  whose 
noble  qualities  won  my  heart,  reproach  me  with  the  love 
I  bear  this  dear  girl." 

"  She  is  my  child  now,"  said  the  baron,  "  as  well  as 
yours.  Let  us  take  her  back  to  the  castle ;  she  is  a 
precious  charge." 

"  I  will  see  to  her,"  said  Rudolph,  "  and  it  shall  not  be  my 
fault  if  she  ever  have  another  protector." 

So  the  party  regained  the  castle,  where  Von  Steinberg 
and  Julia  were  anxiously  awaiting  their  return. 

When  Adelaide  had  been  carefully  attended  to,  Rudolph 
sought  his  uncle  and  guests  in  the  great  hall. 

"  Miss  Julia  Von  Steinberg,"  said  the  soldier,  "  since  con 
fessions  are  the  order  of  the  night,  I  must  place  mine  on 
record.  I  met  you  to-day  in  obedience  to  orders,  believing 
my  heart  was  my  own.  The  event  of  to-night  has  told  me 
too  truly  that  I  had  unconsciously  lost  it.  But  I  am  a  man 


THE    CASTLE    ON    THE    RHINE.  91 

af  honor,  and  if  you  will  accept  my  hand  without  my  heart, 
it  is  yours." 

"  Captain  Ernstein,"  replied  the  beauty,  "  I  thank  you 
for  your  frank  confession.  I  cannot  possibly  accept  your 
hand  without  your  heart.  Nay  —  do  not  frown,  father  — • 
I  have  a  secret  for  your  ear,  and  if  you  do  not  wish  te 
wreck  your  daughter's  happiness,  you  will  urge  me  no 
further." 

Von  Steinberg  frowned,  and  pshawed,  and  pished,  and 
then,  clearing  his  voice,  addressed  the  baron. 

"  Come,  Von  Rosenberg,"  said  he,  "  confess  that  we  have 
been  acting  like  a  couple  of  old  fools,  in  trying  our  hand 
at  match  making — rit  is  a  business  for  the  young  people 
themselves,  and  not  for  old  soldiers  like  us.  Say,  shall  we 
reduce  the  mutineers  to  obedience,  or  shall  we  let  them 
have  it  their  own  way  ?  " 

"  Circumstances  alter  cases,"  answered  the  baron. 
"  When  I  proposed  for  Julia's  hand,  I  didn't  know  my 
wife  had  a  daughter  to  marry.  And  if  that  were  not 
the  case,  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  secret  alluded  to  by 
the  young  lady,  would  prove  an  insuperable  obstacle  to  the 
ratification  of  our  treaty." 

This  secret  was  no  other  than  a  love  affair  between  the 
fair  Julia  and  a  certain  count  who  had  waltzed  with  her 
at  the  baths  of  Baden-Baden,  the  preceding  summer.  We 
are  glad  to  say  that  the  flirtation  thus  happily  commenced 
ended  in  matrimony.  As  for  Rudolph,  he  was  shortly 
after  united  to  l.ue  fair  Adelaide,  on  which  occasion  the 
baron  gave  such  a  rouse  as  the  old  towers  of  Von  Rosen 
berg  had  not  known  since  the  rollicking  days  of  its  first 
feudal  masters.  It  was  illuminated  at  every  window  and 
loophole,  so  that  the  waters  of  the  Rhine  rolled  beneath  it 


92  THE  CASTLE  ON  THE  RHINE. 

a  sea  of  fire,  or  as  if  their  channels  were  overflowed  with 
generous  Asmanshausen ;  and  the  old  butler  discharged  his 
swivel  so  many  times  that  he  had  to  be  taken  down  from 
the  battlements  and  drenched  with  Rhenish  to  preserve  his 
life. 

Thus  ended  all  that   is  worthy  commemorating  in  the 
modern  history  of  the  Castle  on  the  Rhine. 


LOVE   IN  A  COTTAGE. 

"  TELL  me,  Charley,  who  is  that  fascinating  creature  in 
blue  that  waltzes  so  divinely  ? "  asked  young  Frank  Bel- 
mont  of  his  friend  Charles  Hastings,  as  they  stood  "  play 
ing  wallflower  "  for  the  moment,  at  a  military  ball. 

"Julia  Heathcote,"  answered  Charles,  with  a  half  sigh, 
"  an  old  flame  of  mine.  I  proposed,  but  she  refused  me." 

"  On  ,what  ground  ?  " 

"  Simply  because  I  had  a  comfortable  income.  Her  head 
is  full  of  romantic  notions,  and  she  dreams  of  nothing  but 
love  in  a  cottage.  She  contends  that  poverty  is  essential 
to  happiness  —  and  money  its  bane." 

"  Have  you  given  up  all  hopes  of  her  ?  " 

"  Entirely ;  in  fact,  I'm  engaged." 

"  Then  you  have  no  objections  to  my  addressing  this  dear, 
romantic  angel  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  But  I  see  my  fiancee  —  excuse  me  — 
I  must  walk  through  the  next  quadrille  with  her." 

Frank  Belmont  was  a  stranger  in  Boston  —  a  New  York 
er —  immensely  rich  and  fashionable,  but  his  reputation 
had  not  preceded  him,  and  Charley  Hastings  was  the  only 
man  who  knew  him  in  New  England.  He  procured  an  in 
troduction  to  the  beauty  from  one  of  the  managers,  and 
soon  danced  and  talked  himself  into  her  good  graces.  In 
fact,  it  was  a  clear  case  of  love  at  first  sight  on  both  sides. 

The  enamoured  pair  were  sitting  ap&rt,  enjoying  a  most 

93 


94  LOVE   IN   A    COTTAGE. 

delightful  tete-a-tete.  Suddenly  Belmont  heaved  a  deep 
sigh. 

"  Wl>/  do  you  sigh,  Mr.  Belmont  ?  "  asked  the  fair  Julia, 
somewhai  pleased  with  this  proof  of  sensibility.  "  Is  not 
this  a  gay  scene  ?  " 

"  Alas  \  yes,"  replied  Belmont,  gloomily ;  "  but  fate  does 
not  perniA  me  to  mmgle  habitually  in  scenes  like  this. 
They  only  make  my  ordinary  life  doubly  gloomy  —  and 
even  here  I  deem  to  se<s  the  shadow  of  a  fiend  waving  me 
away.  What  right  h&ve  I  to  be  here?" 

"  What  fie,jd  do  you  allude  to  ?  "  asked  Miss  Heathcote, 
with  increash-g  inteiest. 

"A  fiend  Lardly  presentable  in  good  society,"  replied 
Belmont,  bitteiiy.  "One  could  tolerate  a  Mephistophiles 
—  a  dignified  flenif,  with  his  pockets  full  of  money  —  but 
my  tormentor,  il  personified,  would  appear  with  seedy  boots 
and  a  shocking  lad  httt." 

"How  absurd:* 

"It  is  too  true/'  sighed  Belmont,  "and  the  name  of  this 
fiend  is  Poverty  ! y' 

11  Are  you  poor  i  " 

"  Yes,  madam.  I  am  poor,  and  when  I  would  fain  ren 
der  myself  agreeable  in  the  eyes  of  beauty  —  in  the  eyes 
of  on-e  I  could  love,  this  fiend  whispers  me,  '  Beware !  you 
have  nothing  to  offer  her  but  love  in  a  cottage.'  " 

"  Mr.  Belmont,"  said  Julia,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  a 
voice  of  unusual  animation,  "although  there  are  sordid 
souls  in  this  world,  who  only  judge  of  the  merits  of  an  in 
dividual  by  his  pecuniary  possessions,  I  am  not  one  of  that 
number.  I  respect  poverty;  there  is  something  highly 
poetical  about  it,  and  I  imagine  that  happiness  is  oftener 
found  in  the  humble  cottage  than  beneath  the  palace  roof." 

Belmont    appeared    enchanted   with    this    encouraging 


LOVE    IN   A    COTTAGE.  95 

avowal.  The  next  day,  after  cautioning  his  friend  Charley 
to  say  nothing  of  his  actual  circumstances,  he  called  on  the 
widow  Heathcote  and  her  fair  daughter  in  the  character  of 
the  "  poor  gentleman."  The  widow  had  very  different  no 
tions  from  her  romantic  offspring,  and  when  Belmont  can 
didly  confessed  his  poverty  on  soliciting  permission  to  ad 
dress  Julia,  he  was  very  politely  requested  to  change  the 
subject,  and  never  mention  it  again. 

The  result  of  all  this  manoeuvring  was  an  elopement ; 
the  belle  of  the  ball  jumping  out  of  a  chamber  window  on 
a  shed,  and  coming  down  a  flight  of  steps  to  reach  her 
lover,  for  the  sake  of  being  romantic,  when  she  might  just 
as  well  have  walked  out  of  the  front  door. 

The  happy  couple  passed  a  day  in  New  York  city,  and 
then  Frank  took  his  beloved  to  his  "  cottage." 

An  Irish  hack  conveyed  them  to  a  miserable  shanty  in 
the  environs  of  New  York,  where  they  alighted,  and  Frank, 
escorting  the  bride  into  the  apartment  which  served  for 
parlor,  kitchen,  and  drawing  room,  and  was  neither  papered 
nor  carpeted,  introduced  her  to  his  mother,  much  in  the 
way  Claude  Melnotte  presents  Pauline.  The  old  woman, 
who  was  peeling  potatoes,  hastily  wiped  her  hands  and  face 
with  a  greasy  apron,  and  saluted  her  "  darter,"  as  she  called 
her,  on  both  cheeks. 

"Can  it  be  possible,"  thought  Julia,  "that  this  vulgar 
creature  is  my  Belmont's  mother  ?  " 

"Frank!"  screamed  the  old  woman,  "you'd  better  go 
right  up  stairs  and  take  off  them  clothes  —  for  the  boy's 
been  sent  arter  'em  more'n  fifty  times.  Frank  borried  them 
clothes,  ma'am,"  she  added  to  Julia,  by  way  of  explanation, 
"  to  look  smart  when  he  went  down  east." 

The  bridegroom  retired  on  this  hint,  and  soon  reappeared 
in  a  pair  of  faded  nankeen  pantaloons,  reaching  to  about  tliQ 


96  LOVE   IN    A.   COTTAGE. 

Calf  of  the  leg,  a  very  shabby  black  coat,  out  at  the  elbows, 
a  ragged  black  vest,  and,  instead  of  his  varnished  leather 
boots,  a  pair  of  immense  cowhide  brogans. 

"Now,"  said  he,  sitting  quietly  down  by  the  cooking 
stove,  "  I  begin  to  feel  at  home.  Ah  !  this  is  delightful, 
isn't  it,  dearest  ?  "  and  he  warbled,  — 

"  Though  never  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home." 

Julia's  heart  swelled  so  that  she  could  not  utter  a  word. 

"  Dearest,"  said  Frank,  "  I  think  you  told  me  you  had 
no  objection  to  smoking  ?  " 

"  None  in  the  least,"  said  the  bride ;  "  I  rather  like  the 
flavor  of  a  cigar." 

"  O,  a  cigar ! "  replied  Belmont ;  "  that  would  never  do 
for  a  poor  man." 

And  O,  horror !  he  produced  an  old  clay  pipe,  and  filling 
it  from  a  little  newspaper  parcel  of  tobacco,  began  to  smoke 
with  a  keen  relish. 

"  Dinner !  dinner  ! "  he  exclaimed  at  length  ;  "ah !  thank 
you,  mother;  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  bear.  Codfish  and  pota 
toes,  Julia  —  not  very  tempting  fare  —  but  what  of  that  ? 
our  aliment  is  love  ! " 

"  Yes,  and  by  w«y  of  treat,"  added  the  old  woman,  "  I've 
been  and  gone  and  bought  a  whole  pint  of  Albany  ale,  and 
three  cream  cakes,  from  the  candy  shop  next  block." 

Poor  Julia  pleaded  indisposition,  and  could  not  eat  a 
mouthful.  Before  Belmont,  however,  the  codfish  and  pota 
toes,  and  the  ale,  and  cream  cakes  disappeared  with  a 
very  unromantic  and  unlover-like  velocity.  At  the  close  of 
the  meal,  a  thundering  double  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in  ! "  cried  Belmont. 

A  low-browed  man,  in  a  green  waistcoat,  entered. 

"  Now,  Misther  Belmont,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  strong  Hi- 


LOVE   IN   A   COTTAGE.  97 

bcrnian  accent,  "  are  ye  ready  to  go  to  work  ?  By  the 
powers !  if  I  don't  see  ye  salted  to-morrow  on  the  shop- 
board,  I'll  discharge  ye  without  a  character  —  and  ye  shall 
starve  on  the  top  of  that." 

"  To-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Maloney,"  replied  Belmont, 
meekly,  "I'll  be  at  my  post." 

"And  it'll  be  mighty  healthy  for  you  to  do  that  same," 
replied  the  man  as  he  retired. 

"  Belmont,  speak  —  tell  me,"  gasped  Julia,  "  who  is  that 
man  —  that  loafer  ?  " 

"  He  is  my  employer,"  answered  Belmont,  smiling. 

"  And  his  profession  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  tailor." 

"And  you?" 

"  Am  a  journeyman  tailor,  at  your  service  —  a  laborious 
and  thankless  calling  it  ever  was  to  me  —  but  now,  dearest, 
as  I  drive  the  hissing  goose  across  the  smoking  seam,  I 
shall  think  of  my  own  angel  and  my  dear  cottage,  and  be 
happy." 

That  night  Julia  retired  weeping  to  her  room  in  the  attic. 

"  That  'ere  counterpin,  darter,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  I 
worked  with  these  here  old  hands.  Ain't  it  putty  ?  I  hope 
you'll  sleep  well  here.  There's  a  broken  pane  of  glass,  but 
I've  put  one  of  Frank's  old  hats  in  it,  and  I  don't  think  you'll 
feel  the  draught.  There  used  to  be  a  good  many  rats  here, 
but  I  don't  think  they'll  trouble  you  now,  for  Frank's  been 
a  pizinin'  of  'em." 

Left  alone,  Julia  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears.  Even  Belmont  had  ceased  to  be  at 
tractive  in  her  eyes  —  the  stern  privations  that  surround 
ed  her  banished  all  thoughts  of  love.  The  realities  of  life 
had  cured  her  in  one  day  of  all  her  Quixotic  notions. 
9 


93  LOVE   IN   A    COTTAGE. 

"  Well,  Julia,  how  do  you  like  poverty  and  love  in  a  cot 
tage?"  asked  Belmont,  entering  in  his  bridal  dress. 

"  Not  so  well,  sir,  as  you  seem  to  like  that  borrowed 
suit,"  answered  the  bride,  reddening  with  vexation. 

"  Very  well ;  you  shall  suffer  it  no  longer.  My  carriage 
awaits  your  orders  at  the  door." 

"  Your  carriage,  indeed ! " 

"  Yes,  dearest,  it  waits  but  for  you,  to  bear  us  to  Belmont 
Hall,  my  lovely  villa  on  the  Hudson." 

"  And  your  mother  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  mother,  alas  !  The  old  woman  down  stairs 
is  an  old  servant  of  the  family." 

"  Then  you've  been  deceiving  me,  Frank — how  wicked ! " 

"  It  was  all  done  with  a  good  motive.  You  were  not 
born  to  endure  a  life  of  privation,  but  to  shine  the  orna 
ment  of  an  elegant  and  refined  circle.  I  hope  you  will  not 
love  me  the  less  when  you  learn  that  I  am  worth  nearly 
half  a  million  —  that's  the  melancholy  fact,  and  I  can't 
help  it." 

"  O  Frank ! "  cried  the  beautiful  girl,  and  hid  her  face 
in  his  bosom. 

She  presided  with  grace  at  the  elegant  festivities  of  Bel 
mont  Hall,  and  seemed  to  support  her  husband's  wealth  and 
luxurious  style  of  living  with  the  greatest  fortitude  and 
resignation,  never  complaining  of  her  comforts,  mor  mnr* 
muring  a  wish  for  living  in  a  cottage. 


THE   CAREER  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

I  WOKC  up  one  morning  and  found  myself  famous.  —  BYRON. 


JULIAN  MONTFORT  was  a  farmer's  boy  ;  bred  up 
plough  handle  and  cart  tail.  His  father  and  mother  were 
plain,  honest  people,  of  hard-working  habits  and  limited 
ideas,  and  without  the  slightest  dash  of  romance  in  their 
temperaments.  Their  house,  their  lands  were  unprepos 
sessing  in  appearance.  The  soil  was  impoverished  by  long 
and  illiberal  culture;  and  old  Montfort  had  a  true  old- 
fashioned  prejudice  against  trees.  Instead  of  smiling  hedge 
rows,  with  here  and  there  a  weeping  elm  or  plumy  ever 
green  to  cast  their  graceful  shadows  upon  the  pasture  land, 
his  acres  were  enclosed  with  harsh  stone  walls,  or  an  unpic- 
turesque  Virginia  fence  with  its  zigzag  of  rude  rails.  The 
farmer  had  an  equal  prejudice  against  books,  "  book  larnin', 
and  book-larned  men."  Of  course,  with  these  ideas,  Julian's 
education  was  limited  to  a  few  quarters'  schooling  under  an 
old  pedagogue,  whose  native  language  was  Dutch,  and  whc 
never  took  very  kindly  to  the  English  tongue.  Besides!, 
teaching  was  only  an  episode  with  him  ;  for  his  vocation 
was  that  of  a  clergyman,  and  he  held  forth  on  Sundays  in 
alternate  Dutch  and  English  to  his  little  congregation  —  aa 
is  still  the  custom  in  many  of  the  sir.all  agricultural  parishes 
in  New  York  State,  where  the  scene  of  our  veritable  sto 
ry  lies. 

Our  hero,  young  Julian,  early  began  to  show  a  restiveness 

99 


100  THE    CAREER    OF   AN   ARTIST. 

under  the  training  he  received,  which  sadly  perplexed  his 
plain  matter-of-fact  father.  The  latter  could  not  conceive 
why  the  boy  should  sometimes  leave  his  plough  in  the  furrow, 
and  sit  upon  a  hillock,  gazing  curiously  and  admiringly  upon  a 
simple  wild  flower.  He  knew  not  why  the  youth  should 
stand  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  western  sky  when  it  was 
pavilioned  with  crimson,  and  gold,  and  purple ;  or  later  yet, 
when,  one  by  one,  the  stars  came  timidly  forth  and  took 
their  places  in  the  darkening  heaven.  He  shook  his  head 
at  these  manifestations,  and  confidently  informed  his  help 
mate  that  he  feared  the  boy  was  "not  right"  —  significantly 
touching,  as  he  spoke,  that  portion  of  his  anatomy  where  he 
fondly  imagined  a  vast  quantity  of  brain  of  very  superior 
quality  was  safely  stowed  away,  guarded  by  a  sufficient 
quantity  of  skull  to  protect  it  against  any  accident.  Neither 
he  nor  the  good  wife  imagined,  for  a  moment,  that  Ju 
lian  was  a  genius,  and  that  his  talent,  circumscribed  by 
circumstances,  was  struggling  for  an  outlet  for  its  devel 
opment. 

At  last  the  divine  spark  within  him  was  kindled  into 
flame.  An  itinerant  portrait  painter  came  round,  with  his 
tools  of  trade,  and  did  the  dominie  in  brown  and  red,  and 
the  squire's  daughter  in  vermilion  and  flake  white,  and  set 
the  whole  village  agog  with  his  marvellous  achievements. 
Julian  cultivated  his  acquaintance,  received  some  secret  in 
structions  in  the  A  B  C  of  art,  and  bargained  for  some 
drawing  and  painting  materials.  His  aspirations  had  at 
length  found  an  object.  Long  and  painfully  he  labored  in 
secret ;  but  his  advances  were  rapid,  for  he  took  nature  as  a 
model.  At  last  he  ventured  to  display  his  latest  achieve 
ment  —  a  small  portrait  of  his  father.  It  was  first  shown 
to  his  mother,  and  filled  her  with  astonishment  and  delight. 
It  is  the  privilege  of  woman,  however  circumstanced,  to 


THE  CAREER  OF  AN  ARTIST.          101 

appreciate  and  applaud  true  genius.  Of  course,  Moliere's 
housekeeper  occurs  to  the  reader  as  an  illustration.  The 
picture  was  next  shown  to  the  old  man.  He  gazed  at  it 
with  a  sort  of  silent  horror,  puffing  the  smoke  from  his  pipe 
in  short,  spasmodic  jerks,  and  slowly  shaking  his  head  be 
fore  he  spoke. 

"  Do  you  know  it,  father  ?  "  asked  the  young  artist. 

"  Know  it !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man.  "  Yes  —  yes  —  I 
see  myself  there  like  I  was  lookin'  into  a  glass.  There's 
iny  nose,  and  eyes,  and  mouth,  and  hair ;  yes,  and  there's 
my  pipe.  It  ain't  right  —  it  can't  be  right  —  it's  witchcraft. 
Satan  must  ha'  helped  you,  boy  —  you  couldn't  never  ha' 
done  it  without  the  aid  of  the  evil  one." 

This  was  a  sad  damper.  But  just  then  the  dominie  luck 
ily  happened  in  to  take  a  pipe  with  his  parishioner.  He 
pronounced  the  work  excellent,  and  satisfied  his  old  friend's 
doubts  as  to  the  honesty  of  the  transaction.  Julian  blessed 
the  old  man  in  his  heart  for  the  comfort  he  afforded. 

And  now  the  fame  of  the  young  painter  flew  through 
the  village.  The  tavern  keeper  ordered  a  head  of  Gen 
eral  Washington  for  his  sign  board,  the  old  one  —  originally 
a  portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Cambridge  with  the  court  dress 
painted  out  —  not  satisfying  some  of  his  critical  customers. 
And  for  the  blacksmith,  Montfort  painted  a  rampant  black 
horse,  prevented  from  falling  backward  by  a  solid  tail.  The 
stable  keeper  also  gave  him  orders  for  sundry  coats  of  arms 
to  be  depicted  on  wagon  panels  and  sleigh  dashers,  so 
that  the  incipient  artist  had  plenty  of  orders  and  not  a  lit 
tle  cash. 

But  he  soon  grew  tired  of  this  local  reputation.    He  panted 

for  the  association  of  kindred  spirits  ;  for  the  impulse  and 

example  to  be  found  in  some  great  centre  of  civilization ; 

for  refinement,  fame  —  all  that  is  dear  to  an  ardent  imagi- 

9*  « 


102  THE    CAREER    OF    AN    ARTIST. 

nation.  And  so,  one  morning,  he  announced  his  intention 
of  seeking  his  fortune  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

His  mother  was  sad,  but  did  not  oppose  his  wishes  ;  his 
father  shook  his  head,  as  he  always  did  when  any  thing  was 
proposed  —  no  matter  what.  The  old  gentleman  seemed  to 
derive  great  pleasure  from  shaking  his  head,  and  no  one 
interfered  with  so  harmless  an  amusement. 

"  Goin'  to  York,  hey  ?  "  said  he,  emitting  sundry  puffs  of 
smoke.  "  The  Yorkers  are  a  curious  set  of  people,  boy. 
I  read  into  a  paper  once't  about  how  they  car*  on  —  droppin' 
pocket  books,  and  sellin'  brass  watches  for  gold,  and  knock- 
in*  people  down  and  stompin'  onto  'em." 

"  But  the  dominie  thinks  I  might  make  money  there,'*  said 
the  young  man. 

"  0,  then  you'd  better  go.  The  dominie's  got  a,  longer 
head  than  you  or  I,  boy,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  the  youth,  kindling  with  animation. 
"  In  New  York  I  am  sure  to  win  fame  and  fortune.  I  shall 
come  back,  then,  and  buy  you  a  better  farm,  and  hire  hands 
for  you,  so  that  you  won't  be  obliged  to  work  so  hard  —  and 
you  can  set  out  trees." 

"  Hain't  no  opinion  of  trees,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his 
head. 

"  Well,  well,  father,  you  shall  have  money,  and  do  what 
you  like  with  it ;  for  my  part  I  shall  be  content  with  fame." 

"  Fame  !  what  is  that  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  laying  down 
his  pipe  in  bewilderment. 

"  Fame  !  Do  you  ask  what  fame  is  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
romantic  boy.  But  he  paused,  convinced  in  a  moment  of 
the  perfect  futility  of  attempting  to  convey  an  idea  of 
(he  unsubstantial  phantom  to  the  old  man's  intellect. 
Perhaps  the  old  farmer  was  the  better  philosopher  of  the 
two. 


THE  CAREER  OP  AN  ARTIST.  103 

But  Julian  gained  his  point,  and  departed  for  the  great 
city  —  the  goal  of  so  many  struggles,  the  grave  of  so  many 
hopes.  He  was  at  first  dazzled  by  the  splendors  of  the 
artificial  life,  into  the  heart  of  which  he  plunged  ;  and  then, 
with  a  homesick  feeling,  he  sighed  for  that  verdurous  luxury 
of  nature  he  had  left.  He  missed  the  trees  —  for  he  thought 
the  shabby  and  rusty  foliage  of  the  Battery  and  Park  hardly 
worthy  of  that  name.  But,  in  time  to  save  him  from  utter 
disappointment  and  heart  sickness,  there  opened  on  his 
vision  the  glorious  dawning  of  the  world  of  art.  He  passed 
from  gallery  to  gallery,  and  from  studio  to  studio,  drinking 
in  the  beauties  that  unfolded  before  him  with  the  eyes  of 
his  body  and  his  soul.  He  was  enraptured,  dazzled,  en 
chanted.  Then  he  settled  down  to  work  in  his  humble 
room,  economizing  the  scanty  funds  he  had  brought  with 
him  to  the  city.  Like  many  young  aspirants,  he  grasped, 
at  first,  at  the.  most  difficult  subjects.  He  constantly  groped 
for  a  high  ideal.  He  would  fly  before  he  had  learned  to 
walk.  With  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  architecture  and 
anatomy,  and  a  limited  stock  of  information,  he  would  paint 
history  —  mythology.  He  sought  to  illustrate  poetry,  and 
dared  attempt  scenes  from  the  Bible,  Shakspeare,  and  Mil 
ton.  He  failed,  though  there  were  glimpses  of  grandeur 
and  glory  in  his  faulty  attempts. 

Then  he  turned  back,  with  a  sickening  feeling,  to  the  ele 
ments  of  art,  distasteful  as  he  found  them.  It  was  hard  to 
pore  over  rectangles  and  curves,  bones  and  muscles,  angles 
and  measurements,  after  sporting  with  irregular  forms  and 
fascinating  colors.  He  tried  portraiture,  but  he  had  no 
feeling  for  the  business.  He  could  not  transfigure  the  dull 
and  commonplace  heads  he  was  to  copy.  He  had  not  the 
nice  tact  that  makes  beauty  of  ugliness  without  the  loss  of 
identity.  He  could  not  ennoble  vulgarians.  The  sordid 


104  THE    CAREER    OF   AN   ARTIST. 

man  bore  the  stamp  of  baseness  on  his  canvas.-  His 
pictures  were  too  true ;  and  truth  is  death  to  the  portrait 
painter. 

He  began  to  grow  morbid  in  his  feelings,  and  was  fast 
verging  to  a  misanthrope.  His  clothes  grew  shabby,  and 
looked  shabbier  for  his  careless  way  of  wearing  them.  He 
was  often  cold  and  hungry.  There  were  times  when  he 
viewed  with  envy  and  hate  the  evidences  of  prosperity  he 
saw  about  him.  He  railed  against  those  pursuits  of  life 
which  made  men  rich  and  prosperous.  He  began  to  think 
with  the  French  demagogue,  that  "  property  was  a  theft," 
and  to  regard  with  great  favor  the  socialistic  doctrines  then 
coming  into  vogue.  The  American  social  system  he  pro 
nounced  corrupt  and  rotten,  and  deserving  to  be  uprooted  and 
subverted.  And  this  was  the  rustic  boy,  who,  a  few  months 
before,  had  left  his  home  so  full  of  hope,  and  generous  feel 
ing,  and  high  aspiration. 

There  were  times  when  he  yearned  for  the  humble 
scenes  of  his  boyhood.  But  he  was  too  proud  to  throw  up 
his  pencils  and  palette,  and  go  back  to  the  old  farm 
house ;  and  so  he  found  a  vent  for  his  home  feeling  in 
painting  some  of  the  scenes  of  his  earliest  life  —  the  rustic 
dances,  the  huskings,  the  haymakings,  and  junketings  with 
which  he  was  so  familiar. 

One  of  these  pictures  —  a  rustic  dance  was  the  subject  — 
he  sent  to  a  gilder's  to  be  framed.  He  had  consecrated  three 
dollars  to  this  purpose,  and  went  one  day  to  see  how  his 
commission  had  been  executed.  He  found  the  picture  fra- 
mer,  who  was  also  a  picture  dealer,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  talk 
ing  with  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  who  was  praising  his 
performance. 

"  Really  a  very  clever  thing,"  said  the  gentleman,  scan- 
Ding  the  painting  through  his  gold-bowed  eye  glasses 


THE    CAREER    OF    AN    ARTIST.  105 

f<  The  composition,  coloring,  and  light  and  shade,  are  ad 
mirable;  but  the  life,  animation,  and  naturalness  of  the 
figures  make  its  great  charm.  Ah,  why  don't  our  artists 
study  to  produce  life  as  it  exists  around  them,  and  as 
they  themselves  know  it  and  feel  it,  instead  of  giving  us  the 
gods  and  goddesses  of  a  defunct  and  false  religion,  and 
scenes  three  thousand  miles  and  years  away  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Greville,"  said  the  picture  framer,  "  allow  mv 
to  make  you  acquainted  with  the  artist,  Mr.  Montfort ; 
he's  a  next-door  neighbor  of  yours  —  lives  at  No  — ,  Broad 
way." 

"  Mr.  Montfort,"  said  the  gentleman,  warmly  shaking  the 
hand  the  artist  shyly  extended, "  you  found  me  admiring  your 
work.  And  I'm  sure  I  did  not  know  I  had  so  talented  a 
neighbor.  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  better  acquainted  with 
you.  I  presume  your  picture  is  for  sale." 

"  Not  so,  sir,"  replied  the  artist,  coldly.  "  It  is  a  remi 
niscence  of  earlier  and  happier  days.  It  was  painted  for 
my  own  satisfaction,  and  I  shall  keep  it  as  long  as  I  have 
a  place  to  hang  it  in.  It  is  a  common  mistake,  sir,  with  our 
patrons,  to  suppose  they  can  buy  our  souls  as  well  as  our 
labor." 

Mr.  Greville's  cheek  flushed ;  but  as  he  glanced  at  the 
shabby  exterior  and  wan  face  of  the  artist,  his  color  faded, 
and  he  answered  gently  — 

"  Believe  me,  Mr.  Montfort,  /am  not  one  of  the  persons 
you  describe  —  if,  indeed,  they  exist  elsewhere  but  in  your 
imagination.  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  fail  in  sym 
pathy  for  the  high-toned  feelings  of  an  artist ;  for  in  early 
life  I  was  thought  to  manifest  a  talent  for  art —  and,  indeed. 
I  had  a  strong  desire  to  follow  the  vocation." 

"  And  you  abandoned  it  —  you  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
iivine  inspiration  —  you  preferred  wealth  to  glory  —  to  be 


106  THE    CAREER    OF   AN   ARTIST. 

one  of  the  vulgar  many  rather  than  to  belong  to  the  choica 
few.  I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Greville,  on  your  taste." 

"  You  judge  me  harshly,  Mr.  Montfort,"  replied  the  gen 
tleman,  pleasantly.  "  I  am  hardly  required  to  justify  my 
choice  of  calling  to  a  perfect  stranger ;  and  yet  your  very 
frankness  induces  me  to  say  a  word  or  two  of  the  motives 
which  impelled  me.  My  parents  were  poor.  An  artist's 
life  seemed  to  hold  no  immediate  prospects  of  competence. 
They  to  whom  I  owed  my  being  might  die  of  want  before  I 
nad  established  a  reputation.  I  had  an  opportunity  to  en 
ter  commercial  life  advantageously.  I  prospered.  I  have 
lived  to  see  the  declining  days  of  my  parents  cheered  by 
every  comfort,  and  to  rear  a  family  in  comfort  and  opu 
lence.  One  of  my  boys  promises  to  make  a  good  artist. 
Fortunately,  I  can  bestow  on  him  the  means  of  following 
the  bent  of  his  inclination.  Instead  of  being  an  indifferent 
painter  myself,  I  am  an  extensive  purchaser  of  works  of 
art,  so  that  my  conscience  acquits  me  of  any  very  great 
wrong  in  the  course  I  adopted." 

Montfort  was  silent ;  he  was  worsted  in  the  argument. 

"  Mr.  Montfort,"  pursued  the  gentleman,  after  a  pause, 
"  my  evenings  are  always  at  my  disposal,  and  I  like  to  sur 
round  myself  with  men  of  talent.  I  have  already  a  large 
circle  of  acquaintances  among  artists,  musicians,  and  literary 
men,  and  once  a  week  they  meet  at  my  house  ;  I  shall  be 
very  happy  to  see  you  among  us.  To-night  is  my  evening 
of  reception  —  will  you  join  us  ?  " 

Proud  and  shy  as  he  was,  Montfort  could  not  help  ac 
cepting  an  invitation  so  frankly  and  pleasantly  tendered. 
He  promised  to  come. 

"  One  favor  more,"  said  Mr.  Greville.  "  You  won't  sell 
that  picture.  Will  you  lend  it  to  me  for  a  day  or  two  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  refuse  you,  of  course,  Mr,  Greville." 


THE    CAREER    OF    AN    ARTIST.  107 

"  If  you  have  the  slightest  objection,  say  so  frankly,"  said 
the  kind-hearted  merchant. 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  objection,  Mr.  Greville.  It  is 
entirely  at  your  disposal." 

Mr.  Greville  was  profuse  in  his  thanks. 

"  Shall  I  send  it  to  your  house  ? "  said  the  picture 
framer. 

"  No,  Mr.  Tennant,"  replied  the  merchant.  "  It  is  too 
valuable  to  be  trusted  out  of  my  hands.  I  am  personally 
responsible,  and  I  fear  that  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  remu 
nerate  the  artist,  if  any  harm  happens  to  it." 

With  these  words,  bowing  to  the  artist,  Mr.  Greville  took 
the  picture  carefully  under  his  arm,  and  left  the  shop,  Mont- 
fort  soon  following. 

"  Well,  I  declare,"  said  the  picture  framer,  when  he  was 
left  alone,  "  artists  is  queer  animils,  and  no  mistake.  Neg 
lect  'em,  and  it  makes  'em  as  mad  a?  a  short-horned  bull 
in  fly  time ;  coax  'em  and  pat  'em,  and  they  lets  fly  their 
heels  in  your  face.  Seems  to  me,  if  I  was  an  artist,  I 
shouldn't  be  particular  about  being  a  hog,  too.  There  ain't 
no  sense  in  it.  Now,  it  beats  my  notion  all  to  pieces  to  see 
how  Mr.  Greville  could  talk  so  pleasantly  and  gentlemanly 
to  that  dratted  Montfort,  and  he  flyin'  into  his  face  all  the 
time  like  a  tarrier  dog.  I'd  a  punched  his  head  for  him, 
I  would  —  if  they'd  had  me  up  afore  the  Sessions  for  saltin' 
and  batterin'.  Consequently  it's  better  to  be  a  pictur'  fra 
mer  than  a  pictur'  painter.  Cause  why  ?  —  a  pictur*  framer 
is  a  gentleman,  and  a  pictur'  painter  is  a  hog." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  Mr.  Tennant  said, 
mixed  up  with  a  good  deal  of  uncharitableness.  But  what 
did  he  know  of  tl.e  genus  irritdbile  vatum  cf 

Evening  came  ;  and  after  many  misgivings,  Montfort,  in 
an  eclectic  costume,  selected  from  his  whole  wardrobe,  at  a 


108  THE    CAREER    OF    AN    ARTIST. 

late  hour,  ventured  to  emerge  from  his  humble  domicile,  and 
present  himself  at  the  rosewood  portal  of  his  aristocratic 
neighbor.  He  soon  found  himself  in  the  dazzling  drawing 
room,  bewildered  by  the  lights,  and  the  splendor  of  the 
decoration  and  the  furniture.  Mr.  Greville  saw  his  embar 
rassment,  and*  hastened  to  dispel  it.  He  shook  him  warm 
ly  by  the  hand,  and  presented  him  to  his  lady  and  daughter, 
and  then  to  a  crowd  of  guests.  A  distinguished  artist  begged 
the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  him,  and  he  soon  found 
himself  among  people  who  understood  him,  and  with  whom 
he  could  converse  at  his  ease.  Though  he  was  lionized,  he 
was  lionized  by  people  who  understood  the  sensitiveness  of 
artistic  natures.  They  flattered  delicately  and  tastefully. 
Their  incense  excited,  but  did  not  intoxicate  or  suffocate. 
In  one  of  the  drawing  rooms  the  gratified  artist  beheld  his 
picture  placed  in  an  admirable  light,  the  cynosure  of  all 
eyes,  and  the  theme  of  all  lips. 

"  I  am  certainly  very  much  indebted  to  you  for  placing 
it  so  advantageously,"  said  the  artist  to  his  host.  "  It  owes 
at  least  half  its  success  to  the  arrangement  of  the  light." 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  Caroline  ? "  asked  Mr.  Greville, 
turning  to  his  beautiful  daughter,  who  stood  smiling  beside 
him. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  had  made  some  mistake  in  the  arrange 
ment,"  said  the  beautiful  girl,  blushing  with  pleasure. 

Montfort  attempted  a  complimentary  remark,  but  his 
tongue  failed  him.  He  would  have  given  worlds  for  the 
self-possession  of  some  of  the  nonchalant  dandies  he  saw 
hovering  around  the  peerless  beauty.  He  was  forced  to 
content  himself  with  awkwardly  bowing  his  thanks. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  evening,  one  of  the  rooms  was 
cleared  for  a  dance.  Montfort  was  solicited  to  join  in  a 
quadrille,  and  a  beautiful  partner  was  even  presented  to  his 


THE  CAREER  OF  AN  ARTIST.  109 

notice ;  but  he  wanted  confidence  and  knowledge,  and  h6 
had  no  faith  in  the  integrity  of  the  gaiter  shoes  he  had 
vamped  up  for  the  occasion,  so  that  he  was  forced  to  decline. 
This  incident  revived  some  of  his  morbid  feelings  that  had 
begun  to  slumber,  and  he  caught  himself  muttering  some 
tb;iig  about  the  "frivolities  of  fashion." 

He  thought  to  make  his  exit  unnoticed ;  but  Mr.  Greville 
detected  liim,  and  urged  him  to  repeat  his  visit. 

The  next  day,  during  his  reception  hours,  several  visitors 
called  —  an  unheard-of  thing.  They  glanced  indifferently 
at  his  mythological  daubs,  but  were  enthusiastic  in  their 
praises  of  his  rustic  subjects.  The  day  following,  more 
visitors  came.  He  was  offered  and  accepted  four  hundred 
dollars  for  one  of  his  cabinet  pictures.  In  a  word,  orders 
flowed  in  upon  him ;  he  could  hardly  paint  fast  enough  to 
supply  the  demand.  He  became  rather  fastidious  in  his 
dress  —  patronized  the  first  tailors  and  boot  makers,  culti 
vated  the  graces,  and  took  lessons  in  the  waltz  and  polka. 
At  Mr.  Greville's,  and  some  of  the  other  houses  he  visited, 
he  was  remarked  as  being  somewhat  of  a  dandy.  And  this 
was  Mcntfort  the  misanthrope  —  Montfort  the  socialist  — 
Montfort  the  agrarian. 

An  important  episode  in  his  career  was  an  order  to 
paint  the  portrait  of  Miss  Caroline  Greville.  He  had 
already  had  three  or  four  sittings,  and  the  picture  was 
approaching  completion;  then  the  work  suddenly  ceased. 
Day  after  day  the  artist  pleaded  engagements.  At  the  same 
time  he  discontinued  his  visits  at  the  house. 

Mr.  Greville,  somewhat  offended,  called  on  Montfort  for 
an  explanation.  He  found  his  daughter's  picture  covered 
)>y  a  curtain. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  "  how  does  it  happen  that  you 
10 


110  THE    CAREER    OF   AN    ARTIST. 

can't  go  on  with  that  picture  ?     My  wife  is  very  anxious 
about  it." 

"  I  can  never  finish  it,"  said  the  artist  sadly. 

"  How  so,  my  young  friend  ? ' 

u  Mr.  Greville,  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  I  love  your 
daughter ;  I,  a  poor  artist,  have  dared  to  lift  my  eyes  to  the 
child  of  the  opulent  merchant.  I  have  never  in  look  or 
word,  though,  led  her  to  divine  my  feelings  —  the  secret  is 
in  my  own  keeping.  But  I  cannot  see  her  day  after  day  — 
I  cannot  scan  her  beautiful  and  innocent  features,  or  listen 
to  the  brilliant  flow  of  her  conversation,  without  agony. 
This  has  compelled  me,  sir,  to  suspend  my  work." 

"  Mr.  Julian  Montfort,"  said  the  merchant,  "  you  seem 
bent  —  excuse  me  —  on  making  yourself  miserable.  You 
are  no  longer  a  poor  artist ;  you  have  a  fortune  in  your 
pencil.  Your  profession  is  now  a  surer  thing  than  mine. 
There  is  no  gentleman  in  the  city  who  ought  not  to  be 
proud  of  your  alliance ;  and  if  you  can  make  yourself  ac 
ceptable  ti>  my  daughter,  why,  take  her  and  be  happy." 

How  Julian  sped  in  his  wooing  may  be  inferred  from  the 
fact  that,  at  a  certain  wedding  ceremony  in  Grace  Church, 
he  performed  the  important  part  of  bridegroom  to  the  bride 
of  Miss  Caroline  Greville ;  and  after  the  usual  quantity 
of  hand  shakings,  and  tears,  and  kisses,  and  all  the  usual 
efforts  to  make  a  wedding  resemble  a  funeral  as  much  as 
possible,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Montfort  took  passage  in  one  of 
the  Havre  steamers  for  an  extensive  tour  upon  the  Euro 
pean  continent. 

When  they  returned,  Mr.  Montfort's  reputation  rose 
higher  than  ever,  of  course,  and  he  made  money  with  mar 
vellous  rapidity.  He  is  now  as  well  known  in  Wall  Street 
AS  in  his  studio,  has  a  town  and  country  house,  is  a  strong 
conservative  in  politics,  and  talks  very  learnedly  about  the 


THE  CAREER  OF  AN  ARTIST.          Ill 

moneyed  interest.  He  has  made  some  efforts  to  transplant 
his  good  old  father  and  mother  to  New  York;  but  they 
prefer  residing  at  his  villa,  and  taking  care  of  his  Durham 
cattle  and  Suffolk  pigs,  and  seeing  that  his  "  Cochin  Chinas  " 
and  "Brahma  Pootras"  do  not  trample  down  the  chil 
dren  when  they  go  out  to  feed  the  poultry  of  a  summer 
morning. 


SOUVENIKS  OF  A   RETIRED  OYSTERMAN 
IN   ILL   HEALTH. 

SAMIVEL,  my  boy,  always  stick  to  the  shop  ;  and  if  eve* 
you  become  a  millionhair,  like  me,  never  be  seduced  by 
any  womankind  into  enterin'  fash'nable  society,  and  moving 
among  the  circles  of  bong  tong.  (I  have  been  obligated  to 
study  French  without  a  master ;  'cause  the  Upper  Ten  al 
ways  talks  in  bad  French,  and  so  a  word  or  two  will  slip  in 
onawares,  even  ven  talking  to  a  friend — just  as  a  bad 
oyster  will  sometimes  make  its  way  into  a  good  stew,  spite 
of  the  best  artist.) 

I  envies  you,  Samivel.  You  don't  know  what  a  treat  it 
is  to  me  to  be  admitted  confidentially  behind  the  counter, 
and  to  find  myself  surrounded  once  more  by  these  here 
congenial  bivalves.  I  can't  escape  from  old  associations. 
Oysters  stare  me  in  the  face  wherever  I  go.  They're  fash 
'nable,  Samivel,  and  it's  about  the  only  think  in  fash'n  as  I 
reg'larly  likes. 

The  other  day  we  gave  a  derjerner,  (that's  French  for 
brekfax,  Samivel,)  which  took  place  about  dinner  time,  and 
consisted  of  several  distinguished  pussons  of  the  city,  and 
three  or  four  Hungry'uns  as  came  over  in  the  last  steamer 
> — reg'lar  rang-a-tangs,  vith  these  'ere  yaller  anchovies 
growin'  onto  their  upper  lips.  The  old  ooman,  or  madame, 
as  she  calls  herself,  was  on  hand  to  receive  —  but  I  was 
out  of  the  way.  Sjie  was  mightily  flustered,  for  she  know'd 

112 


SOUVENIRS    OF   A   RETIRED    OYSTERMAN.  113 

I  could  talk  a  little  Dutch,  and  she  wanted  me  for  to  in 
terpret  with  the  Ilungrj'uns. 

So  she  speaks  up  werry  sharp,  (the  old  ooraan  can 
speak  werry  sharp  by  times,)  and  says  to  my  youngest,  a 
boy,— 

"  Where  on  airth  can  your  father  be  ?  " 

"  0,  daddy's  in  the  sink  room,"  says  the  young  'un,  "  a 
openin'  eyesters." 

The  whole  derjerner  bust  into  a  hoss  larff —  for  these 
Upper  Ten  folks,  Samivel, — betwixt  you  and  me  and  the 
pump,  my  boy,  —  ain't  got  no  more  manners  than  hogs. 
The  child  was  voted  an  ongfong  terriblee  —  but  it  wor  a 
fack.  I  had  went  down  into  the  sink  room,  as  a  mere 
looker-on  in  Veneer,  and  I  seen  one  of  my  employees  a 
making  such  botchwork  of  openin',  hagglin'  up  his  hands, 
and  misusin'  the  oysters,  than  I  off  coat,  tucked  up  sleeves, 
and  went  to  work,  and  rolled  'em  off  amazin'  —  I  tell  you. 
The  past  rushed  back  on  me  —  the  familiar  feel  of  the  knife 
almost  banished  my  dyspepsy  —  I  lived  —  I  breathed — I 
vas  a  oysterman  again.  Did  I  ever  show  you  them  lines 
I  wrote  into  my  darter's  album  ?  No.  Veil,  then,  'ere 


TO  AN  UNOPENED  OYSTER. 

Thou  liest  fair  within  thy  shell ; 

Thy  charms  no  mortal  eye  can  see ; 
And  so,  as  Lamprey  *  says,  of  old 

Was  "Wenus  lodged —  the  fairest  she. 

But  beauties  such  as  yourn  and  hern 
Were  never  born  unseen  to  waste ; 

Like  her,  you're  bound  to  come  to  light, 
To  gratify  refinement's  taste. 

*  Probably  Lempriere. 
10* 


114  SOUVENIRS    OP   A    RETIRED    OYSTERMAN. 

The  fairest  of  the  female  race 

To  Ilium  vent  vith  Priam's  boy ; 
So  the  best  oysters  that  I  see 

Are  sent  by  railroad  off  to  Troy. 

Sleep  on — sleep  on  —  nor  dream  of  woe 

Until  the  horrid  deed  be  done  — - 
Then  out  and  die,  like  Simile,* 

In  thy  first  glance  upon  the  sun. 

Well,  and  'ows  bizness,  Samivel  ?  You've  got  a  good 
stand,  and  you're  bound  to  succeed.  But  beware  of  the 
Cracker-Fiend.  I'll  tell  you  about  him. 

There  vas  a  chap  as  used  to  patronize  me  that  vas  one 
of  the  hungriest  customers  you  ever  did  see.  He  was 
werry  shabbily  dressed,  and  he  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
the  picturs  I've  seen  of  Shakspeare's  "  lean  and  hungry 
Cashier." 

He  used  to  come  in,  give  his  order,  (generally  a  stew,) 
and  then  go  and  set  down  in  a  box  and  drop  the  curting. 
It  allers  looks  suspicious  for  a  customer  to  drop  his  curting 
afore  you  bring  him  the  oysters  —  arterwards  it's  all  per 
fectly  proper,  in  course.  Afore  the  stew  was  ready,  be 
would  call  out  — 

"  Waiter  !   crackers ! " 

The  boy  would  hand  him  a  basket ;  but  when  his  stew 
was  set  before  him,  there  warn't  no  crackers  in  his  box. 

So  ve  put  him  on  a  allowance  of  a  dozen  crackers,  which 
is  werry  liberal,  considerin'  as  pickles  and  pepper-sarce  is 
throw'd  in  gratis.  But  he  used"  to  step  out  quietly  and 
snake  baskets  of  crackers  outen  other  boxes,  so's  the  other 
customers,  as  alvays  conducted  themselves  like  perfick  gen- 
'lemen,  vas  all  the  time  a  singing  out,  "  Waiter !  plate  of 
Brackers." 

*  Semele(?) 


SOUVENIRS    OF   A    RETIRED    OTSTERMAN.  115 

Then  we  kept  a  boy  a-watching  of  him,  so's  to  keep  him 
in  his  box  till  he'd  eat  his  oysters,  and  then  you  had  to  keep 
a  worry  sharp  eye  on  him  ven  he  was  paying,  and  you  vas 
ft-makin*  change,  els't  you'd  hev  all  the  crackers  took  off 
the  counter. 

One  day  arter  he  vas  gone,  ve  found  all  the  crackers 
missin'  from  one  side  of  the  room.  Of  course,  ve  suspected 
he  done  it,  but  how  he  done  it  vas  as  much  a  puzzle  as  the 
Spinks. 

Next  day,  arter  ve  got  him  into  his  box,  ve  vatched  and 
listened.  Ve  heard  a  queer  kind  of  sound,  like  a  man  try 
ing  to  play  the  jewsharp  vith  his  boots ;  and,  sir,  ve  detect 
ed  the  cracker-fiend  a  climbin'  over  the  partitions  into  the 
neighborin'  boxes,  and  a  collarin'  all  the  crackers  he  could 
come  acrost. 

Perhaps  you  think  I  vent  into  him  like  a  knife  into  a 
Prince's  Bay.  But  I  didn't  do  no  such  think.  I  treated 
him  werry  perlite,  and  gin  him  two  dollars,  a  keg  of  crack 
ers,  and  a  jar  of  pickled  oysters,  on  condition  he'd  go  and 
patronize  some  other  establishment.  Keep  an  eye  open  for 
him,  Samivel. 

Be  generous,  Samivel,  but  don't  carry  generosity  to  XS, 
for  an  antidote  I'm  about  to  relate,  out  of  my  pusnol  ex 
perience,  illustrates  the  evil  effex  of  excessive  philan- 
throphy. 

A  little  gal  used  to  come  into  my  shop  to  buy  oysters.  I 
seen  she  was  some  kind  of  a  foreigner,  so  I  set  her  clown 
for  Dutch  —  as  them  vas  the  only  foreigners  I  vas  acquaint 
ed  vith  at  the  time.  I  artervards  discovered  she  was  French. 
She  was  werry  thin,  and  as  pale  as  a  soft-shelled  clam ; 
there  was  a  dark  blue  color  under  her  eyes,  like  these  here 
muscle  shells.  At  first,  she  used  to  buy  ninepence  worth 
nf  oysters.  Arter  a  while  it  came  down  to  fourpence ;  and 


116  SOUVENIRS    OF   A   RETRIED    OYSTERMAW. 

one  day  she  only  vanted  two  cents  vorth.  I  asked  her  who 
they  vas  for,  and  she  said,  — 

"  For  my  grandfather  ;  he  is  very  sick,  sare." 

I  followed  her,  and  found  out  where  her  grandfather 
lived.  So  one  night  I  opened  four  gallons  of  prime  New 
Yorkers,  put  'em  in  a  kettle,  took  a  lot  of  crackers  and  soft 
bread,  and  started  for  the  Frenchman's.  The  little  gal 
came  to  the  door,  and  showed  me  up  stairs.  The  poor  old 
customer  was  all  alone,  in  bed,  and  yaller  as  a  blanket.  He 
rtart  up  ven  he  see  us,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  Antoinette,  priez  le  gentilhomme  de 
'asseoir" 

The  leetle  gal  offered  me  a  stool,  but  I  didn't  set  down. 

"  Mounseer,"  said  I,  in  some  French  manufactured  for 
tb.e  occasion,  "  I  havey  broughtee  you  sommey  oy  teries," 
and  I  showed  him  the  kittle,  with  the  kiver  off. 

I  thought  his  eyes  kind  of  vatered  at  the  sight,  but  he 
sighed,  and  turnin'  to  the  leetle  gal,  said, — 

"Antoinette,  dites  a  Monsieur,  queje  n^ai  plus  d'ai  jent — 
pas  un  sou." 

I  guessed  it  was  something  about  money,  so  afore  the 
leetle  gal  could  translate  it,  I  sang  out,  — 

"  I  don't  want  no  money,  Mounseer ;  these  here  are  free 
gratis,  for  nothin'  at  all.  I  always  treats  my  customers 
once  in  a  while." 

That  was  a  lie,  Samivel  —  but  never  mind,  I  gin  him  a 
dozen,  and  the  old  fellur  seemed  to  like  'em  fusi  rate. 
Then  I  offered  him  some  more,  but  he  hung  back.  How 
ever  I  made  him  swallow  'em,  and  offered  some  n  the 
leetle  gal. 

"  After  grandpapa,"  said  she. 

So  I  offered  him  some  more. 

"  No  more,  1  zank  you  ;  I  'ave  eat  too  moosh." 


SOUVENIRS    OF   A   RETIRED    OTSTERMAN.  117 

I  know'd  he  was  only  sogerin'  out  of  delixy.  So  I  says 
as  perlite  as  possible,  — 

"None  of  that,  old  fellur  —  catch  hold.  I  fetched  'em 
for  you,  and  I'm  bound  to  see  you  eat  'em." 

"  Sare,  you  are  too  kind,"  said  he ;  and  he  vent  to  vork 
again.  Arter  a  spell,  he  stopped. 

"  Don't  like  'em  —  hey  ?  "  says  I,  pretendin*  to  be  mad. 

"  I  sail  prove  ze  contraire,"  said  he,  in  a  kind  of  die-away 
manner,  and  he  went  into  'em  agin. 

Presently,  he  gin  over,  and  fell  back  on  his  piller  mur- 
murin'  — 

"  Sare,  you  are  too  good." 

I  gin  the  balance  to  the  leetle  gal,  and  told  her  to  come 
round  in  the  mornin',  and  I'd  fill  her  kittle  for  her,  adding 
that  her  grandfather  would  be  all  straight  in  the  mornin'. 

Samivel !  he  vas  all  straight  in  the  morning,  but  just  as 
stiff  as  a  cold  poker.  The  last  two  or  three  dozen  finished 
him ;  his  digestion  wasn't  strong  enough  for  'em,  and  he 
know'd  it,  but  he  eat  himself  to  death  out  of  politeness. 
The  French  are  certingly  the  perlitest  people  on  the  face 
of  the  yairth. 

Howsever,  I  see  him  buried  decently,  and  I  adopted  the 
leetle  gal.  She  was  well  brung  up  and  educated,  and  she 
larned  my  darters  French  —  the  real  Simon  Pure  —  for 
she  was  a  Canadian,  and  her  grandfather  came  from  Gas- 
cony.  But  his  fate  vos  a  orful  lesson.  Benevolence,  like 
an  oyster-roast,  is  good  for  nothink  if  it's  over  done.  And 
now,  Samivel,  my  boy,  a-jew,  for  I  have  a  sworray  this 
evenin',  and  receive  half  Beacon  Street.  A-jew. 

H 


THE   NEW  YEAR'S   STOCKINGS. 

u  NEVER  crosses  his  t's,  nor  dots  his  i's,  and  his  n's  and 
v's  and  r's  are  all  alike  ! "  said,  almost  despairingly,  Mr. 
..Simon  Quillpen,  the  painstaking  clerk  of  old  Lawyer 
Latitat,  as  he  sat  late  at  night,  on  the  last  day  of  the  year, 
digging  away  at  the  copy  of  a  legal  document  his  liberal 
pation  and  employer  had  placed  in  his  hands  in  the  early 
part  of  the  evening.  "  Thank  Heaven  !  "  he  added,  laying 
down  his  pen,  and  consulting  a  huge  silver  bull's  eye  which 
he  pulled  from  a  threadbare  fob,  "  I  shall  soon  get  through 
this  job,  and  then,  hey  for  roast  potatoes  and  the  charming 
society  of  Mrs.  Q. ! "  And  with  this  consolatory  reflection, 
he  resumed  his  work  with  redoubled  energy. 

Mr.  Quillpen  was  a  little  man  ;  not  so  very  little  as  to 
pass  for  a  phenomenon,  but  certainly  too  small  to  be  noticed 
by  a  recruiting  grenadier  sergeant.  His  nose  was  quite 
sharp  and  gave  his  mild,  thin  countenance,  particularly  as 
he  carried  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  a  very  bird-like  air. 
He  trod,  too^  gingerly  and  lightly,  very  like  a  sparrow  or  a 
tomtit ;  and,  to  complete  the  analogy,  his  head  being  almost 
always  surmounted  by  a  pen,  he  had  a  sort  of  crested,  blue- 
jayish  aspect,  that  was  rather  comical.  Quillpen  had  a.  very 
little  wife  and  three  very  little  children,  Bob,  Chiffy,  and  the 
baby ;  the  last  the  ultimate  specimen  of  the  diminuendo. 
It  was  well  for  them  that  they  were  so  small,  for  Quillpen 
obtained  his  starvelihood  by  driving  the  quill  for  Mr.  Latitat 

118 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  STOCKINGS.  119 

at  four  hundred  dollars  a  year,  to  which  Mrs.  Quillpen 
added,  from  time  to  time,  certain  little  sums  derived  from 
making  shirts  and  overalls  at  the  rate  of  about  ten  cents 
the  million  stitches. 

Whether  Mr.  Latitat  was  able  to  pay  more  was  a  ques 
tion  that  never  entered  the  minute  brain  of  Simon  Quillpen  ; 
for  he  had  so  humble  an  opinion  of  his  own  merits,  and 
was  always  so  contented  and  cheerful,  that  he  regarded  his 
salary  as  enormous,  and  was  wont  playfully  to  sign  little 
confidential  notes  Croesus  Quillpen  and  Girard  Quillpen, 
and  on  rare  convivial  occasions  would  sometimes  style  him 
self  Baron  Rothschild.  But  this  last  title  was  very  rarely 
indulged  in,  because  it  once  sent  his  particular  crony,  a 
chuckle-headed  clerk  in  the  post-office,  into  a  cachinnatory 
fit  which  was  "  rayther  in  the  apoplectic  line." 

"  To  return  to  our  muttons."  Simon  dug  away  at  his 
copying  with  an  occasional  reverential  glance  at  a  certain 
low  oaken  door,  opening  into  the  penetralia  of  this  abode  of 
law  and  righteousness,  behind  which  oaken  door,  at  that 
very  moment,  sat  Mr.  Lucius  Latitat,  either  deeply  engaged 
in  the  solution  of  some  vast  legal  problem,  or  calculating 
the  interest  on  an  outstanding  note,  or  consulting  with 
chuckling  delight  a  list  of  mortgages  to  be  foreclosed. 

Well — Quillpen  finished  his  document,  wiped  his  pen 
on  a  thick  velvet  butterfly,  laid  it  in  the  rack  above  tliG 
ink,  pushed  back  his  chair  from  the  table,  withdrew  the 
cambric  sleeve  from  his  right  arm,  and  smoothed  down  his 
wristbands,  having  first  put  on  his  India  rubber  overshoes. 
The  fact  is,  he  was  very  anxious  to  get  home,  and  he  could 
not  go  without  first  seeing  Mr.  Latitat.  The  idea  of  knock 
ing  at  Mr.  Latitat's  door  on  business  of  his  own  never  once 
occurred  to  him.  He  would  do  that  for  a  client,  but  not 
for  himself.  So  he  ventured  on  a  series  of  low  coughs,  and 


120  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  STOCKINGS. 

finding  no  notice  was  taken  of  them,  he  dropped  the  poke* 
into  the  coalhod,  the  most  daring  act  he  had  ever  perpe 
trated.  The  slight  noise  thus  produced  crashed  on  his 
guilty  ears  like  thunder,  or  rather  with  the  roar  of  a  uni 
versal  earthquake.  Slight,  however,  as  it  was,  it  brought 
out  Mr.  Latitat  from  his  interior. 

"  What  the  deuse  are  you  making  such  a  racket  for  ?  " 
he  exclaimed  in  tones  that  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  his 
employee  ;  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  slightly 
glanced  at  the  table,  and  asked,  "  Have  you  got  through 
that  job?" 

"  Yes'm  —  I  mean,  yes'r,"  replied  the  quivering  Simon. 

"  Well,  then,  you  can  go.  I'm  going  myself.  You  blow 
out  the  lights  and  lock  the  room.  And  mind  and  be  here 
early  to-morrow  morning.  Nothing  like  beginning  the  New 
Year  well.  Good  night." 

"  Mr.  Latitat,  sir !  "  cried  Quillpen,  with  desperate  reso 
lution,  as  he  saw  the  great  man  about  to  disappear  —  "please, 
sir  —  could  you  let  me  have  a  little  money  to-night  ?  " 

"  Why !  what  do  you  want  of  money  ?  "  retorted  the 
lawyer.  "Oil  'spose  you  have  a  host  of  unpaid  bills." 

"  No,  sir ;  no,  sir ;  that's  not  it,"  Simon  hastened  to  say. 
"  I  hain't  got  narry  bill  standing.  I  pay  as  I  go.  Cash 
takes  the  lot !  " 

"  None  of  your  coarse,  vulgar  slang  to  me  !  "  said  Latitat. 
"  Reserve  it  for  your  loose  companions.  If  not  to  pay  bills, 
what  for?" 

"  Please,  sir,  —  we,  that  is  Mrs.  Q.  and  myself,  want  to 
put  something  in  the  children's  stockings,  sir." 

"  Then  put  the  children's  legs  in  'em ! "  said  the  lawyer 
with  a  grin.  "  I  make  no  payments  to  be  used  for  any 
such  ridiculous  purposes.  Good  night.  Yet  stay  —  take 
this  letter  —  there's  money  in  it  —  a  large  amount  —  put 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  STOCKINGS.  121 

it  in  the  post-office  with  your  own  hands  as  you  go 
home." 

"  And  you  can't  let  me  have  a  trifle  ?  "  gasped  Simon. 

"  Not  a  cent ! "  snarled  the  lawyer ;  and  he  slammed  the 
door  behind  him,  and  went  heavily  down  the  stairs. 

"  I  wonder  how  it  feels  to  punch  a  man's  head,"  said 
Simon,  as  he  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  where  Mr.  Latitat  left 
him.  "  It's  illegal  —  it's  actionable  —  there  are  fines  and 
penalties  provided  by  the  statute :  but  it  seems  as  if  there 
were  cases  that  might  justify  the  operation  —  morally. 
But  then,  again  —  what  good  would  it  do  to  punch  his  head? 
Punching  his  head  wouldn't  get  me  money  —  and  if  I  was 
to  try  it,  on  finding  that  the  licks  didn't  bring  out  the  cash, 
I  might  be  tempted  to  help  myself  to  the  cash,  and  that 
would  be  highway  robbery ;  and  when  the  punchee  ventured 
to  suggest  that,  the  puncher  might  be  tempted  to  silence 
him.  O  Lord !  that's  the  way  these  murders  in  the  first 
degree  happen ;  and  I  think  that  I  was  almost  on  the  point 
of  taking  the  first  step.  I  really  think  I  look  a  little  like 
Babe  the  pirate,"  added  the  poor  man,  glancing  at  his 
mild  but  disturbed  features  in  the  glass ;  "  or  like  Captain 
Kidd,  or  leastways  like  Country  McClusky  —  a  regular 
bruiser ! " 

Sitting  down  before  the  grate,  and  stirring  it  feebly  with 
the  poker,  he  tried  to  devise  some  feasible  plan  for  supply 
ing  the  vacuum  in  his  treasury.  He  might  borrow,  but 
then  all  his  friends  were  very  poor,  and  particularly  hard 
up  —  at  this  particular  season  of  the  year.  The  bull's 
eye  watch  might  have  been  "  spouted,"  if  he  had  foreseen 
this  contingency ;  but  every  avuncular  relative  was  now  at 
this  hour  of  the  night  snug  abed  to  a  dead  certainty.  Pur 
chasing  on  credit  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  and  the  only  toy 
shop  which  kept  open  late  enough  for  his  purchases,  was 
11  . 


122 

kept  by  a  man  to  whom  he  was  totally  unknown.  Time 
galloped  on,  meanwhile,  and  the  half-hour  struck. 

"  I'll  slip  that  letter  in  the  post-office,  and  then  go  home," 
gaid  Simon  sorrowfully,  rising  as  he  spoke,  and  grasping  hi? 
inseparable  umbrella. 

"  Hallo !  shipmate  !  where-away  ?  "  cried  a  hoarse  voice. 
And  Mr.  Quillpen  became  aware  of  th§  presence  of  an 
"  ancient  mariner,"  enveloped  in  a  very  rough  dread 
nought,  and  finished  off  with  a  large  amount  of  whiskers 
and  tarpaulin. 

"  I  was  going  home,  sir,"  replied  Simon,  with  the  defer 
ential  air  of  a  very  little  to  a  very  big  man. 

"  Ay  —  going  to  clap  on  hatches  and  deadlights.  Well, 
tell  me  one  thing  —  where-away  may  one  find  one  Mr. 
Latitat  —  a  shore-going  cove,  a  regular  land-shark,  d'ye 
see?" 

"  This  is  Mr.  Latitat's  ofiice,  sir,"  said  Simon. 

«  Ay  —  and  is  he  within  hail  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  he  has  gone  home." 

"Slipped  his  cable — hey?  just  my  luck!  Well,  one 
might  snooze  comfortably  on  this  here  table  —  mightn't  he  ? 
You  can  clear  out,  and  I'll  take  care  of  the  shop  till 
morning." 

"  That  would  be  perfectly  inadmissible,  sir,"  said  Simon, 
"  the  idea  of  a  stranger's  sleeping  here  !  " 

"  A  stranger !  "  cried  the  sailor.  "  Why,  shipmate,  do 
you  happen  to  know  who  I  am  ?  Look  at  me  !  Don't  you 
find  somewhat  of  a  family  likeness  to  Lucius  in  my  old 
weather-beaten  mug  ?  Why,  man-alive,  I'm  his  brother,  — - 
his  own  blood  brother !  You  must  a  heard  him  speak  of 
me.  Been  cruising  round  the  world  in  chase  of  Fortune, 
but  could  never  overhaul  her.  Been  sick,  shipwrecked,  and 
now  come  back  as  poor  as  I  went.  But  Lucius  has  got 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  STOCKINGS.  123 

enough  for  both  of  us.  How  glad  he'll  be  to  see  me  to 
morrow,  hey,  old  Ink-and-tape  ?  " 

Simon  had  his  doubts  about  that  matter,  but  told  the 
sailor  to  come  in  the  morning,  and  see. 

"That  I  will,"  said  the  tar,  "and  start  him  up  with  a 
rousing  Happy  New  Year !  But  I  say,  shipmate,  I  don't 
want  to  sleep  in  the  watch-house.  Have  you  never  a  shil 
ling  about  your  trousers  ?  " 

Simon  answered  that  he  hadn't  a  cent. 

"  Why,  don't  that  brother  of  mine  give  you  good  wages  ?  " 

"  Enormous !  "  said  Simon. 

"  What  becomes  of  it  all  ?  " 

"I  spend  it  all  —  I'm  very  extravagant,"  said  Simon, 
shaking  his  head.  "  And  then,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  your 
brother  isn't  always  punctual  in  his  payments.  To-night, 
for  instance,  I  couldn't  get  a  cent  from  him." 

"  Then  I  tell  you  what  I'd  do,  shipmate,"  said  the  sailor, 
confidentially.  "  I'd  overhaul  some  of  his  letters.  Steam 
will  loosen  a  wafer,  and  a  hot  knife-blade,  wax.  I'd  over- 
naul  his  money-letters  and  pay  myself.  Ha !  ha !  do  you 
take  ?  Now,  that  letter  you've  got  in  your  fin,  my  boy, 
looks  woundy  like  a  dokiment  chock  full  of  shinplasters. 
What  do  you  say  to  making  prize  of  'em  ?  wouldn't  it  be  a 
jolly  go  ?  " 

"  Stand  off! "  said  Simon,  assuming  a  heavy  round  ruler 
and  a  commanding  attitude.  "  Don't  you  come  anigh  me, 
or  there'll  be  a  case  of  justifiable  homicide  here.  How 
dare  you  counsel  me  to  commit  a  robbery  on  your  own 
brother  ?  I  wonder  you  ain't  ashamed  to  look  me  in  the 
face." 

u  A  chap  as  has  cruised  as  many  years  as  I  have  in  the 
low  latitudes  ain't  afraid  to  look  any  body  in  the  face," 
answered  the  "  ancient  mariner,"  grimly.  "  I  made  you  a 


124  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  STOCKINGS. 

fair  offer,  shipmate,  and  you  rejected  it  like  a  long-shore 
jackass  as  you  are.  Good  night  to  ye." 

Much  to  Us  relief,  the  sailor  took  himself  off,  and  Simon, 
after  locking  and  double  locking  his  door,  went  to  the  post- 
office  and  deposited  the  letter  with  which  he  had  been 
intrusted.  As  he  lived  a  great  way  up  on  the  Neck,  he  did 
not  reach  home  until  after  all  the  clocks  of  the  city  had 
struck  twelve,  so  that  he  was  able  to  surprise  his  little  wife, 
who  was  sitting  up  for  him,  with  a  "  Happy  New  Year  ! " 

He  cast  a  rueful  eye  at  the  line  of  stockings  hung  along 
the  mantel-piece  in  the  sitting  room,  and  then  sorrowfully 
announced  to  his  wife  his  failure  to  obtain  money  of  Mr. 
Latitat. 

"  There'll  be  nothing  for  the  stockings,  Meg,"  said  he, 
"  unless  what  the  poor  children  put  in  ours." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  his  wife,  who  bore  the  announce 
ment  much  better  than  he  anticipated ;  "  but  we'll  have  a 
happy  New  Year  for  all  that." 

Simon's  roasted  potatoes  were  completely  charred,  he  had 
been  detained  so  late ;  but  there  was  a  little  meal  in  the 
centre  of  each,  and  charcoal  is  not  at  all  unhealthy.  He 
went  to  bed,  and  in  spite  of  his  cares,  slept  the  sleep  of  the 
just. 

A  confused  babbling  awoke  him  at  daylight.  Master 
Bobby  was  standing  on  his  stomach,  Miss  Chiffy  was  seated 
nearly  on  his  head,  and  baby  was  crowing  in  its  cradle. 
Happy  New  Years  and  kisses  were  exchanged.  "  0,  dear 
papa  and  mamma !  "  cried  Bobby,  "  what  a  beautiful  horse 
I  found  in  my  stocking ! " 

"  And  what  a  beautiful  wax  doll,  with  eyes  that  move,  in 
mine,"  said  Chiffy,  — "  and  such  a  splendid  rattle  and 
coral  in  baby's.  Now,  pray  go  down  and  see  what  there  is 
in  yours." 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  STOCKINGS.  125 

u  This  is  some  of  your  work,  little  woman,'*  whispered 
Simon  to  his  wife.  But  the  little  woman  denied  it  em 
phatically.  Much  mystified,  he  hurried  down  to  the  break 
fast  room.  The  children  had  made  the  usual  offering  of  very 
hard  and  highly-colored  sugar  plums  ;  but  in  each  of  the 
two  large  stockings,  stowed  away  at  the  bottom,  was  a  roll 
of  bank  notes,  five  hundred  dollars  in  each. 

"  Somebody  wants  to  ruin  us  ! "  cried  Simon,  bursting 
into  tears.  "  This  is  stolen  money,  and  they  wa^t  to  lay  it 
on  to  us." 

"All  I  know  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Quillpen,  "is,  that  last 
night,  just  before  you  came  home,  a  sailor  man  came  here 
with  all  these  things,  and  said  they  were  for  us,  and  made 
me  promise  to  put  them  in  the  stockings,  as  he  directed,  and 
say  nothing  about  his  visit  to  you." 

"  A  sailor !  "  cried  Simon  — '•'  I  have  it !  I  think 
I  know  who  it  is.  Good  by  —  I'll  be  back  to  breakfast 
directly." 

Simon  ran  to  the  office,  and  found,  as  he  anticipated,  Mr. 
Latitat  there  before  him. 

"  A  happy  New  Year  to  you,  sir,"  said  he.  "  Have  you 
seen  your  brother  ?  " 

"  I  have  not,"  replied  Mr.  Latitat. 

Simon  then  told  him  all  that  happened  on  the  preceding 
night ;  the  apparition  of  the  sailor,  —  the  temptation,  — 
the  money  found  in  the  stockings,  in  proof  of  which  he 
showed  the  thousand  dollars,  and  stating  his  fears  that  they 
had  been  stolen,  offered  to  deposit  the  sum  in  his  employer's 
hands. 

"  Keep  'em,  shipmate  ;  they  were  meant  for  you  !  "  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Latitat,  suddenly  and  queerly,  assuming  the 
very  voice  and  look  of  the  nautical  brother  of  the  preced 
ing  evening. 

11* 


126 

While  Simon  stared  his  eyes  out  of  his  head.  Mr.  Latital 
informed  hina  that  he  had  no  brother  —  that  he  had  dis 
guised  himself  for  the  purpose  of  putting  his  clerk's  long- 
tried  fidelity  to  a  final  test,  and,  that  sustained  triumphantly, 
had  rewarded  him  in  the  manner  we  have  seen.  He  told 
how,  disgusted  in  early  life  by  the  treachery  and  ingratitude 
of  friends  and  relations  who  had  combined  to  ruin  him,  he 
had  become  a  misanthrope  and  miser  ;  how  the  spectacle  of 
Simon's  disinterested  fidelity,  rigid  sense  of  honor,  self- 
denial  and  cheerfulness,  had  won  back  his  better  nature ; 
and  he  wound  off,  as  ho  shook  Quillpen  warmly  by  the  hand, 
by  announcing  that  he  had  raised  his  salary  to  twelve  hun 
dred  dollars  per  annum. 

The  good  news  almost  killed  Simon.  "Please  your 
honor,"  said  he,  endeavoring  to  frame  an  appropriate  reply, 

—  "no  —  that  ain't  it  —  please  your  excellency  —  you've 
gone  and  done  it  —  you've  gone  and  done  it !     I  was  Baron 
Rothschild  before,  and  now  —  no  —  I  can't  tell  what  I  am 

—  it  isn't  in  no  biographical  dictionary,  and  I  don't  believe 
it's  in  the  *  Wealth  of  Nations ! '  " 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  said  Latitat,  laughing, "  go  home  and 
tell  Mrs.  Q.  the  office  won't  be  open  till  to-morrow,  and 
that  I  shall  depend  on  dining  with  you  all  to-day." 


THE   OBLIGING  YOUNG   MAN. 

"  CARS  read}-  for  Boston  and  way  stations  ! "  shouted  the 
conductor  of  a  railroad  train,  as  the  steamhorse,  harnessed 
for  his  twenty  mile  trip,  stood  chafing,  snorting,  and  cough 
ing,  throwing  up  angry  puffs  of  mingled  gray  and  dingy 
vapor  from  his  sturdy  lungs.  "  Cars  ready  for  Boston  and 
way  stations ! " 

"  O,  yes  ! "  replied  a  brisk  young  man,  with  a  bright  eye, 
peculiar  smirk,  spotted  neckcloth,  and  gray  gaiters  with 
pearl  buttons.  "  Cars  ready  for  Boston  and  way  stations. 
All  aboard.  Now's  your  time  —  quick,  or  you'll  lose  'em. 
Now  then,  ma'am." 

"  But,  sir,"  remonstrated  the  old  lady  he  addressed,  and 
whom  he  was  urging  at  the  steps  of  a  first  class  car. 

"  O,  never  mind !  "  replied  the  brisk  young  man.  "  Know 
what  you're  going  to  say  —  too  much  trouble  —  none  what 
ever,  I  assure  you.  Perfect  stranger,  true  —  but  scriptural 
injunction,  do  as  you'd  be  done  by.  In  with  you  —  ding ! 
ding !  —  there's  the  bell  —  off  we  go." 

And  so  in  fact  they  did  go  off  at  forty  miles  an  hour. 

"  But,  sir,"  said  the  old  lady,  trembling  violently. 

"  I  see,"  interrupted  the  OBLIGING  YOUNG  MAN  ;  "  want 
a  seat  —  here  it  is  —  a  great  bargain  —  cars  full  —  quick; 
or  you'll  lose  it." 

"  But,  sir,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  nervous  trepidation, 
"I  —  I  —  wasn't  going  to  Boston." 

127 


128  THE    OBLIGING    YOUNG   MAN. 

"  The  dense  you  weren't.  Well,  well,  well,  why  couldn't 
you  say  so  ?  Hullo  !  Conductor !  Stop  the  cars  ! " 

"  Can't  do  it,"  replied  the  conductor.  "  This  train  don't 
stop  short  of  "VYoburn  watering 'station." 

"  Woburn  watering  station  ! "  whimpered  the  old  woman, 
wringing  her  hands.  "  O,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Sit  still ;  take  it  easy  —  no  use  crying  for  spilt  milk  ; 
what  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured.  I'll  look  out  sharp  ; 
you  might  have  saved  yourself  all  this  trouble." 

Away  went  the  cars,  racketting  and  oscillating,  while  the 
obliging  young  man  was  looking  round  for  another  recipient 
of  his  good  services. 

"  Ha  ! "  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  There's  a  poor  young 
fellow  quite  alone.  Lovesick,  perhaps;  pale  cheek  — 
sunken  eye  —  never  told  his  love ;  but  let —  Shakspeare  — 
I'm  his  man !  Must  look  out  for  the  old  woman.  Here 
we  are,  ma'am,  fifteen  miles  to  Lowell  —  out  with  you  — 
look  out  for  the  cars  on  the  back  track.  Good  by  — 
pleasant  trip ! " 

Ding  dong,  went  the  bell  again. 

"Hullo!  here's  her  bundle!  Catch,  there  —  heads! 
All  right — get  on,  driver ! " 

And  having  tossed  a  bundle  after  the  old  woman,  he  re 
sumed  his  seat. 

"  Confound  it ! "  roared  a  fat  man  in  a  blue  spencer. 
"  You're  treading  on  my  corns." 

"Beg  pardon,"  said  the  obliging  young  man.  "Bad 
things,  corns,  —  *  trifling  sum  of  misery  new  added  to  the 
foot  of  your  account ; '  old  author  —  name  forgotten.  Never 
mind  —  drive  on  ! " 

"  But  where's  my  bundle  ?  "  asked  the  fat  man.  "  Con 
ductor  !  Where's  my  bundle  ?  Brown  paper  —  red  string 
Saw  it  here  a  moment  since." 


THE    OBLIGING    YOUNG    MAN.  129 

The  conductor  knew  nothing  about  it.  The  obliging 
young  man  did.  It  was  the  same  he  had  thrown  out  after 
the  old  woman. 

"  You'll  find  it  some  where,"  he  said,  with  a  consolatory- 
wink.  "  Can't  lose  a  brown  paper  bundle.  I've  tried  — 
often  —  always  turned  up ;  little  boy  sure  to  bring  it. 
'  Here's  your  bundle,  sir  ;  ninepence,  please.'  All  right  — 
go  ahead ! " 

Here  the  obliging  yoang  man  took  his  seat  beside  the 
pale-faced  youth. 

"Ill  health,  sir?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  pale-faced  youth,  fidgeting. 

"  Mental  malady  —  eh  ?  " 

The  young  man  sighed. 

"  See  it  all.  Don't  say  a  word,  man  !  Cupid,  heart  from 
heart,  forced  to  part.  Flinty-hearted  father  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Flinty-hearted  mother  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Flinty-hearted  aunt  ?  " 

The  lovesick  young  man  sighed,  and  nodded  assent. 

"  Tell  me  the  story.  I'm  a  stranger  —  but  my  heart  is 
here,  sir."  "Whereupon  the  obliging  young  man  referred 
to  a  watch  pocket  in  his  plaid  vest,  and  nodded  with  a  great 
deal  of  intelligence.  "  Tell  me  all  —  like  to  serve  my  fel 
lows  —  no  other  occupation  ;  out  with  it,  as  the  doctor  said 
to  the  little  boy  that  swallowed  his  sister's  necklace." 

The  lovesick  youth  informed  the  obliging  young  man 
that  he  loved  and  was  beloved  by  a  young  lady  of  Boston, 
whose  aunt,  acting  as  her  guardian,  opposed  his  suit.  He 
was  going  to  Boston  to  put  a  plan  of  elopement  into  oper 
ation.  He  had  prepared  two  letters,  one  to  the  aunt  re 
nouncing  his  hopes,  to  throw  her  off  her  guard  ;  the  other 


130  THE    OBLIGING    YOUNG   MAN. 

to  the  young  lady,  appointing  a  meeting  at  the  Providence 
cars.  The  difficulty  was  to  get  the  letters  delivered.  This 
the  obliging  young  man  readily  undertook  to  do  in  person. 
Both  the  aunt  and  niece  bore  the  same  name  —  Emeline 
Brown ;  but  the  aunt's  letter  was  sealed  with  black,  the 
niece's  with  red  wax.  The  letters  were  delivered  with 
many  injunctions  to  the  obliging  young  man,  and  the  two 
new-made  friends  parted  on  the  arrival  of  the  cars  in 
Boston. 

The  Providence  cars  were  just  getting  ready  to  start, 
when,  amid  all  the  bustle  and  confusion,  a  pale-faced  young 
man  "might  have  been  seen,"  as  Mr.  James,  the  novelist, 
says,  nervously  pacing  to  and  fro,  and  occasionally  darting 
into  Pleasant  Street,  and  scrutinizing  every  approaching 
passenger  and  vehicle.  At  last,  when  there  was  but  a 
single  moment  to  spare,  a  hack  drove  up  furiously,  and  a 
veiled  lady  hastily  descended,  and  gave  her  hand  to  her 
expectant  admirer. 

"  Quick,  Emeline,  or  we  shall  lose  the  train !  " 

The  enamoured  couple  were  soon  seated  beside  each  other, 
and  whirling  away  to  Providence.  The  lady  said  little,  but 
sat  with  downcast  head  and  veiled  face,  apparently  over 
whelmed  with  confusion  at  the  step  she  had  taken.  But  it 
was  enough  for  young  Dovekin  to  know  she  was  beside  him, 
and  he  poured  forth  an  unbroken  stream  of  delicious  non 
sense,  till  the  train  arrived  at  its  destination. 

In  the  station  house  the  lady  lifted  her  veil.  Horror  and 
confusion  !  It  was  the  aunt !  The  obliging  young  man  had 
delivered  the  wrong  letter. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Miss  Brown,  "  I  am  the  person  whom 
you  qualified,  in  your  letter  intended  for  my  niece,  as  a 
hateful  hag/  in  whose  eyes  you  were  '  throwing  dust. 
What  do  you  say  to  that,  sir  ? " 


THE    OBLIGING    YOUNG   MAN.  131 

"  Say  ! "  replied  the  disconsolate  Dovekin.  "  It's  no  use 
to  say  any  thing  ;  for  it  is  my  settled  purpose  to  spring  over 
the  parapet  of  the  railroad  bridge  and  seek  oblivion  in  a 
watery  grave.  But  first,  if  I  could  find  that  obliging  young 
man,  I'd  be  the  death  of  him." 

"  No  you  wouldn't,"  said  the  voice  of  that  interesting  in 
dividual,  as  he  made  his  appearance  with  a  lady  on  his  arm. 
"  Here  she  is  —  take  her  —  be  happy.  After  I'd  given  the 
notes,  mind  misgave  me  —  went  back  to  the  house  —  found 
the  aunt  gone  —  niece  in  tears  —  followed  after  —  same 
train  —  last  car  —  here  she  is  !  " 

"  I  hope  this  will  be  a  lesson,"  said  Dovekin. 

"  So  it  is.  Henceforth,  I  shall  mind  my  own  business  ; 
for  every  thing  I've  undertaken  lately,  on  other  folks'  ac 
count,  has  gone  amiss.  Come,  aunty,  give  your  blessing — 
let  'em  go.  Train  ready — I'm  off — best  of  wishes  — 
good  by.  Cars  ready  for  Boston  and  way  stations  !  —  all 
aboard." 

The  aunt  gave  her  blessing ;  and  this  was  the  last  thai 
any  of  the  party  saw  of  the  Obliging  Young  Man. 


EULALIE   LASALLE. 

A    STORY   OF  THE    REIGN  OF   TERROR. 

O,  what  was  love  made  for  if  'twas  not  for  this, 
The  same  amidst  sorrow,  and  transport,  and  bliss  ? 

MOORB. 

THE  fanaticism  of  the  French  revolutionists  had  reached 
its  height ;  the  excitable  population,  intoxicated  with  pow 
er,  and  maddened  by  the  vague  dread  of  the  retribution  of 
despair,  goaded  on  by  profligate,  ferocious,  or  insane  leaders, 
was  plunging  into  the  most  revolting  and  sanguinary  ex 
cesses.  The  son  of  St.  Louis  had  ascended  to  heaven, 
the  beautiful  and  unfortunate  Marie  Antoinette  had  laid  her 
head  upon  the  block,  the  baby  heir  of  the  throne  of  the 
Capets  was  languishing  in  the  hands  of  his  keepers,  and 
the  Girondists,  the  true  friends  of  republican  liberty,  were 
silenced  by  exile  or  the  scaffold.  In  short,  the  Reign  of 
Terror,  the  memorable  sway  of  Robespierre,  hung  like  a 
funeral  pall  upon  the  land  which  was  fast  becoming  a  vast 
cemetery.  The  provincial  towns,  faithful  echoes  of  the 
central  capital,  were  repeating  the  theme  of  horror  with  a 
thousand  variations.  Each  considerable  city  had  its  guil 
lotine,  and  where  that  instrument  of  punishment  was  want 
ing,  the  fusillade  or  the  mitraille  supplied  its  place. 

At  this  crisis,  Eugene  Beauvallon,  a  young  merchant  of 
Toulouse,  presented  himself  one  morning  in  the  drawing 

132 


EULALIE    LASALLE.  133 

loom  of  Mademoiselle  Eulalie  Lasalle,  an  orphan  girl  of 
great  beauty  and  accomplishment,  to  whom  he  had  long 
been  betrothed,  and  whom  he  would  ere  this  have  married 
but  for  the  political  troubles  of  the  period.  Eulalie  was  a 
graceful  creature,  slenderly  and  symmetrically  formed, 
with  soft  blue  eyes,  and  an  exceedingly  gentle  expression, 
which  was  indicative  of  her  character.  She  seemed  too 
fair  and  fragile  to  buffet  with  the  storms  of  life,  and  ill  fitted 
to  endure  its  troubles,  created  to  be  the  idol  of  a  drawing 
room,  the  fairy  queen  of  a  boudoir. 

Eugene  was  a  handsome,  manly  fellow,  of  great  energy 
and  character.  The  revolution  surprised  him  in  the  act  of 
making  a  fortune  ;  the  whirlwind  had  stripped  him  of  most 
of  his  property,  but  had  yet  left  him  liberty  and  life.  He 
had  contrived  to  avoid  rendering  himself  obnoxious  to  the 
sansculottes  without  securing  their  confidence.  The  tri- 
colored  cockade  which  he  wore  in  his  hat  shielded  him 
from  the  fatal  epithet  of  aristocrat  —  a  certain  passport  to 
the  guillotine. 

Beauvallon  then  seated  himself  beside  Eulalie,  who 
was  struck  with  the  radiant  expression  of  his  countenance, 
and  begged  to  know  the  reason  of  his  joyous  excitement. 

"  I  have  good  news  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  gayly ;  "  but  we 
are  not  alone,"  he  added,  stopping  short,  as  his  eyes  rested 
on  the  sinister  face  of  an  old  woman,  humbly  attired,  who 
was  busily  engaged  in  knitting,  not  far  from  the  lovers. 

"  O,  don't  mind  poor  old  Mannette,"  said  Eulalie.  "  The 
poor  old  creature  is  past  hearing  thunder.  It  is  a  woman, 
Eugene,  I  rescued  from  absolute  starvation,  and  she  is  so 
grateful,  and  seems  so  desirous  of  doing  something  to  render 
herself  useful,  that  I  am  mortified  almost  at  her  sense  of 
the  obligation." 

"  I  hope  she  has  not  supplanted  your  pretty  femme  dt 
12  i 


134:  EULALIE   LASALLE. 

chcimbre,  Julie,  of  whom  you  threatened  to  be  jealous. 
My  admiration,  I  hope,  has  not  cost  the  girl  her  place." 

"  O,  dear,  no  !  I  couldn't  part  with  Julie  ! "  replied  Eu- 
lalie,  laughing  gayly.  "But  come,  you  must  not  tanta 
lize  me  —  what  has  occurred  to  make  you  so  gay,  at  a 
time  when  every  true  Frenchman  wears  a  face  of  mourn 
ing?" 

"  The  Marquis  de  Montmorenci  is  at  liberty. " 

"  At  liberty  ?  How  happened  it  that  the  Revolutionary 
Tribunal  acquitted  him  ?  " 

"Acquitted  him!  Eulalie,  does  the  tiger  that  has  once 
tasted  the  blood  of  his  prey  permit  him  to  escape  ?  Is 
Robespierre  more  lenient  than  the  beast  of  prey  ?  No,  Eu 
lalie,  he  escaped  by  the  aid  of  a  true  friend.  He  fled 
from  Paris,  reached  Toulouse,  and  found  shelter  under  my 
roof!" 

The  cheek  of  Eulalie  turned  ashy  pale.  "  Under  your 
roof ! "  she  faltered.  "  Do  you  know  the  penalty  of  shel 
tering  a  fugitive  from  justice  ?  " 

"  It  is  death  upon  the  scaffold,"  answered  the  young  mer 
chant,  calmly.  "  But  better  that  a  thousand  times  than  the 
sin  of  ingratitude ;  the  sin  of  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  claims 
of  humanity." 

"  My  own  noble  Eugene ! "  exclaimed  the  young  girl, 
enthusiastically,  pressing  her  lover's  hand.  "  Every  day 
increases  my  love,  my  respect  for  you,  and  my  sense  of  my 
own  unworthiness.  But  you  will  never  have  to  blush  for 
the  inferiority  of  your  wife." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  dearest  ?  "  inquired  Eugene,  with 
alarm. 

"  This  is  no  time  for  marriage,"  said  Eulalie,  sadly. 
"  Images  of  death  and  violence  meet  our  eyes  whichever 
way  they  turn.  We  were  born,  Eugene,  in  melancholy 


EULALIE   LASALLE.  135 

times,  and  our  loves  are  misplaced.  We  shall  meet 
hereafter ;  on  this  earth,  I  fear,  our  destinies  will  never  be 
united." 

"  Prophetess  of  evil !  "  said  Beauvallon,  gayly.  "  Your 
rosy  lips  belie  your  gloomy  augury.  No,  Eulalie,  this  dark 
cloud  cannot  forever  overshadow  the  land  —  even  now  I 
think  I  can  see  glimpses  of  the  blue  sky.  Le  bon  temps 
viendra,  —  the  good  time  is  coming,  —  and  then,  Eulalie,  be 
sure  that  I  will  claim  your  promised  hand." 

The  conversation  of  the  lovers  had  been  so  animated  and 
interesting  that  they  did  not  notice  the  moment  when  old 
Mannette  had  glided  like  a  spectre  from  the  apartment. 

Beauvallon  lingered  awhile,  —  "parting  is  such  sweet 
sorrow,"  —  and  finally  reluctantly  tore  himself  from  the 
presence  of  Eulalie,  promising  to  see  her  again  on  the  en 
suing  day,  and  let  her  know  whatever  had  transpired  in 
the  interim. 

As  he  approached  the  street  in  which  his  store  and  house 
were  situated,  he  heard  the  confused  murmur  of  a  multitude, 
and  soon  perceived,  on  turning  the  corner,  that  a  very 
large  crowd  was  collected  outside  his  door.  There  were 
men  and  women  —  many  of  the  former  armed  with  pikes 
and  sabres  —  the  latter,  the  refuse  of  the  populace,  who 
appeared  like  birds  of  evil  omen  at  every  scene  of  violence 
and  tumult. 

A  hundred  voices  called  out  his  name  as  he  approached, 
and  menacing  gestures  were  addressed  to  him  by  the  mul 
titude. 

"  Citizens,"  said  the  merchant,  "  what  is  the  meaning  of 
ill  this?" 

"You  shall  know,  traitor,"  shrieked  a  palsied  hag  of 
eighty,  whose  lurid  eyes  had  already  gloated  on  every  pub 
lic  execution  that  had  taken  place  in  Toulouse.  "  Here  if 


136  EULALIE    LASALLE. 

Citizen  Dumart  of  the  revolutionary  committee  —  ah,  he  is 
a  true  friend  of  the  people  —  he  is  no  aristocrat  in  disguise  ! 
Vive  le  Oitoyen  Dumart !  " 

"  Long  live  Citizen  Dumart !  Down  with  the  aristocrats ! " 
shouted  a  hundred  voices. 

The  Citizen  Dumart  was  a  sallow-faced  man,  dressed  in 
rusty  black,  wearing  an  enormous  tri-colored  cockade  in  his 
three-cornered  hat,  with  a  sash  of  the  same  color  girt 
around  his  waist.  His  bloodshot  eyes  expressed  a  mix 
ture  of  cowardice  with  ferocity.  He  was  flanked  by 
a  couple  of  pikemen  as  hideous  as  the  Afrites  of  Eastern 
romance. 

"  Citizen  Beauvallon,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  whose  tremo^ 
betrayed  his  native  timidity,  "  I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of 
the  revolutionary  committee  of  Toulouse.  Citizen  Beau 
vallon,  it  is  useless  to  resist  the  authority  of  the  represen 
tatives  of  the  people ;  if  you  have  any  concealed  weapons 
about  you,  I  advise  you  to  surrender  them.  You  see  I 
stand  here  protected  by  the  arms  of  the  people." 

"I  have  no  weapons,"  replied  Beauvallon.  "I  have 
no  sinister  designs.  I  know  not  why  I  am  arrested. 
Acquaint  me  with  the  charge,  and  confront  me  with  my 
accusers." 

"  Seize  upon  the  prisoner ! "  cried  Dumart  to  his  satellites. 
And  he  breathed  freer  when  he  saw  the  merchant  in  the 
gripe  of  tw3  muscular  ruffians,  whose  iron  hands  compressed 
his  wrists  as  if  they  were  manacles. 

"  Away  with  him ! "  screamed  the  hag  who  had  spoken 
before.  "  Away  with  him  to  the  revolutionary  committee ! 
Down  with  the  aristocrats  ! " 

Followed  by  the  imprecations  of  the  crowd,  Beauvallon 
was^  conducted  to  the  town  house,  and  in  a  very  few  mo 
ments  was  placed  at  the  bar  of  the  revolutionary  committee 


EULALIE    LASALLE.  137 

—  a  body  invested  with  the  power  of  life  and  death.  On 
his  way  thither  lie  had  found  means  to  speak  a  word  to  an 
acquaintance  in  the  crowd,  and  to  beg  him  to  inform  Eu- 
lalie  of  what  had  happened. 

So  soon  as  he  had  heard  the  accusation  read,  and  knew 
that  he  was  charged  with  the  crime  of  aiding  the  Marquis 
de  Montmorenci,  a  fugitive  from  justice,  he  felt  that  his 
situation  was  indeed  critical ;  but  mingled  with  his  astonish 
ment  and  dread  was  a  curiosity  to  learn  whence  his  denun 
ciation  could  have  proceeded  —  who  could  have  lodged  the 
information  against  him.  He  was  not  long  kept  in  sus 
pense,  for  the  witness  brought  on  the  stand  to  confront  him 
was  no  other  than  Mannette,  the  supposed  deaf  servant  of 
Eulalie  Lavalle,  who  had  overheard  his  confession  of  the 
morning,  and  hastened  to  denounce  him.  Though  his  sen 
tence  was  not  immediately  pronounced,  and  the  decision  of 
his  case  was  deferred  till  the  next  day,  Beauvallon  felt  that 
his  doom  was  sealed. 

He  was  conveyed  to  a  house  in  the  vicinity  of  the  town 
hall  for  confinement,  as  the  prisons  were  all  overstocked. 
His  jailer  was  a  man  whom  the  merchant  had  formerly  be 
friended,  and  whose  heart  was  not  inaccessible  to  emotions 
of  pity,  though  he  was  above  bribery,  and  evidently  deter 
mined  to  execute  his  duty  to  the  letter. 

"  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,  my  friend,"  said  ihr  pris 
oner,  slipping  a  golden  louis  into  his  hand. 

"If  it  is  one  that  I  can  grant  without  violaMng  my 
duty,"  replied  the  jailer,  returning  the  money  to  Beau 
vallon,  "  I  will  do  so  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  but  not  for 
gold." 

Beauvallon  explained  that  he  wished  to  send  a  note  to 

Mile.  Lasalle,  requesting  her  to  visit  him  in  prisop  —  an 

interview  which  would  probably  be  their  last,  and 

12* 


188  EULALIE    LASALLE. 

undertook  readily  to  see  the  missive  delivered,  and  to  per 
mit  the  visit.  The  note  having  been  despatched,  Beauval- 
lon  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  arrival  of  his  mistress. 

The  sad  hours  passed  away,  —  but  though  he  learned 
from  the  jailer  that  his  errand  had  been  performed,  no  Eu- 
lalie  made  her  appearance. 

"  She  forsakes  me  !  "  he  muttered  bitterly.  «  The  wound 
ed  df  er  is  abandoned  by  the  herd,  and  an .  unfortunate  man 
is  shunned  by  his  fellows.  Well,  the  dream  was  pleasant 
while  it  lasted  —  the  regret  of  awakening  can  scarce  be 
tedious  —  a  few  hours,  and  all  the  incidents  of  this  transitory 
life  will  be  forgotten.  But  Eulalie  —  whom  I  loved  better 
than  my  life  itself  —  it  is  hard  to  die  without  one  word 
from  thee." 

When  on  the  following  day  Beauvallon  was  again  taken 
before  the  revolutionary  committee,  he  looked  anxiously 
around  the  court  room  to  see  if  he  could  discover  the  face 
of  Eulalie  among  the  spectators,  many  of  whom  were 
women.  But  he  was  disappointed.  Her  absence  convinced 
him  that  she  had  abandoned  him,  and  wholly  absorbed  by 
this  reflection,  he  paid  no  attention  to  the  formula  of  his 
trial.  He  was  condemned  to  death,  the  sentence  to  be  ex 
ecuted  on  the  following  day. 

"  Mr.  President,"  said  he,  rising,  "  I  thank  you,  and  I 
have  merely  one  favor  to  ask.  Anticipate  the  time  of 
punishment — let  it  be  to-day  instead  of  to-morrow  —  let 
me  go  hence  to  the  scaffold." 

"  Your  request  is  reasonable,"  replied  the  president,  in  a 
bland  voice,  "  and  if  circumstances  permitted,  it  would  af 
ford  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  grant  it.  But  the  guil 
lotine  requires  repair,  and  will  not  be  in  a  condition  to 
perform  its  functions  until  to-norrow,  at  which  time,  Citi- 


EULALIE    LASALLE.  139 

ren  Beauvallon,  at  the  hour  of  ten,  A.  M.,  you  will  have 
ceased  to  exist.     Good  night,  and  pleasant  dreams  ! " 

This  sally  was  received  with  roars  of  applause,  and 
the  unhappy  prisoner  was  reconducted  to  the  place  of  con 
finement. 

That  night  was  a  sleepless  one.  Beauvallon's  arrest,  his 
speedy  trial  and  condemnation,  the  desertion  of  Eulalie 
had  followed  each  other  with  such  stunning  rap  id  ity^  that, 
until  now,  he  had  hardly  time  to  reflect  upon  the  dismal 
chain  of  circumstances — now  they  pressed  upon  his  at 
tention,  and  crowded  his  mind  to  overflowing.  At  midnight, 
as  he  lay  tossing  on  his  bed,  upon  which  he  had  thrown 
himself  without  undressing,  he  thought  he  heard  a  confused 
noise  in  the  apartment  of  the  next  house  adjoining  his. 
The  noise  increased.  He  placed  his  hand  upon  the  wall, 
and  felt  it  jar  under  successive  shocks.  Suddenly  a  current 
of  air  blew  in  upon  him,  and  at  the  same  time  a  faint 
ray  of  light  streamed  through  an  opening  in  the  partition. 

"  Courage !  "  said  a  soft  voice.  "  The  opening  enlarges. 
Now,  Julie ! " 

Julie !  Beauvallon  was  sure  he  heard  the  name,  and 
yet  uncertain  whether  or  not  he  was  dreaming. 

"  Julie ! "  he  exclaimed,  cautiously. 

"  Yes,  monsieur  —  it  is  Julie  —  sure  enough,"  answered 
a  pleasant  voice. 

"  Then  you,  at  least,  have  not  forgotten  me." 

"  No  one  who  has  once  known  you  can  ever  forget 
you.  Courage  !  you  will  soon  be  free.  Aid  us  if  you  can." 

"  Then  you  are  not  alone  ?  " 

"  Have  patience,  and  you  will  see." 

His  own  exertions,  added  to  those  of  his  friends  with 
out,  soon  enabled  the  prisoner  to  force  his  way  into  the 
next  house  ;  but  there  disappointment  awaited  him.  Two 


140  EULALIE    LASALLE. 

soldiers  in  the  uniform  of  the  gensdarmerie  stood  before 
him. 

"  On  ne  passe  par  id,  —  you  can't  pass  here,"  —  said  one. 

"  What  cruel  mockery  is  this  ?  "  cried  Beauvallon.  "  I,* 
it  not  enough  that  I  am  condemned  to  death,  but  you  must 
subject  me  to  an  atrocious  pleasantry  ?  This  is  refinement 
of  "cruelty." 

"  It  seems  that  our  disguise  is  perfect,  Julie,"  said  the 
soldier  who  had  not  yet  spoken.  "  Eugene  does  not  know 
his  best  friends." 

In  an  instant  the  speaker  was  folded  in  the  arms  of  Beau 
vallon.  It  was  Eulalie  herself,  as  bewitchingly  beautiful 
in  her  uniform  as  in  the  habiliments  of  her  sex.  She  hur 
riedly  explained  that  the  moment  she  heard  of  Eugene's 
arrest,  she  prepared  to  meet  the  worst  contingency.  She 
had  already  converted  her  money  into  cash.  Learning  the 
place  of  his  imprisonment,  she  had  hired,  through  the  agen 
cy  of  another  person,  the  adjoining  house,  which  happened 
to  be  unoccupied.  The  task  of  making  an  aperture  in  the 
partition  was  an. easy  one  —  the  difficulty  of  passing  through 
the  city  was  greater.  The  idea  of  military  disguises  then 
occurred.  Julie  and  herself  had  already  equipped  them 
selves,  and  they  were  provided  with  a  uniform  for  Beau 
vallon. 

Secured  by  this  costume,  the  three  fugitives  ventured 
forth.  In  the  great  square  of  the  city,  workmen  were  busily 
employed  in  repairing  the  hideous  engine  of  death,  anc 
Beauvallon  passed,  not  without  a  shudder,  beneath  the  very 
shadow  of  the  guillotine,  to  which  he  had  been  doomed. 

Seated  on  the  cold  ground,  beneath  the  fatal  apparatus, 
was  an  old  woman  muttering  to  herself. 

"  Good  evening,  citizens,"  said  she.  "  We  shall  have  a 
fine  day  for  the  show  to-morrow.  Look  how  the  bonny 


EULALIE   LASALLE.  141 

Btars  are  winking  and  blinking  on  the  gay  knife  blade  they've 
been  sharpening.  It  will  be  darker  and  redder  when  the 
clock  strikes  ten  again.  Down  with  the  aristocrats  I " 

The  fugitives  needed  no  more  to  quicken  their  steps. 
They  reached  the  frontiers  in  safety,  and  beyond  the  Rhine, 
in  the  hospitable  land  of  Germany,  the  lovers  were  united ; 
nor  did  they  return  to  France  till  the  star  cf  Robespierre 
had  set  in  blood,  and  the  master  mind  of  Napoleon  had 
placed  its  impress  on  the  destinies  of  France. 


THE  OLD  CJTY  PUMP. 

MANT  evenings  since,  we  were  passing  up  State 
Street  late  at  night.  State  Street  at  midnight  is  a  very  dif 
ferent  affair  from  State  Street  at  high  noon.  The  shadows 
of  the  tall  buildings  fall  on  a  deserted  thoroughfare ;  save 
where,  here  and  there,  a  spectral  bank  watchman  keeps 
ward  over  the  granite  sepulchres  of  golden  eagles,  and  the 
flimsier  representatives  of  wealth.  The  bulls  and  bears 
have  retired  to  their  dens,  and  East  India  merchants  are 
invisible.  Newsboys  are  nowhere,  and  every  sound  has 
died  away.  There  stands  the  Old  State  House,  peculiar  and 
picturesque,  rising  with  a  look  of  other  days,  a  relic  of  past 
time,  against  the  deep  blue  sky,  or  webbing  the  full 
moon  with  the  delicate  tracery  of  its  slender  spars  and 
signal  halliards.  And  there  stands  —  no  !  there  stood  the 
old  Town  Pump.  But  it  is  no  more  —  Ilium  fait  was 
written  on  its  forehead  —  it  has  been  reformed  out  of 
office,  its  occupation  has  gone,  its  handle  has  been  amputated, 
its  body  has  been  dissected,  and  there  is  nothing  of  it  left. 

Yet  on  the  evening  to  which  we  alluded  in  the  beginning, 
the  old  pump  was  there,  and  crossing  over  from  the  Mer 
chants  Bank,  we  leaned  against  its  handle,  as  one  leans 
against  the  arm  of  an  old  friend,  in  a  musing,  idle  mood. 
Presently  we  heard  a  gurgling  sound  and  confused  mur 
murs  issuing  frcm  its  lips  —  "  like  airy  tongues  that  syllable 
men's  names."  Anon  these  murmurs  shaped  themselves 

142 


THE    OLD    CITY   PUMP.  143 

into  distinct  articulations,  and  as  we  listened,  wonderingly, 
the  old  pump  spoke :  — 

"  Past  twelve  o'clock,  and  a  moonlight  night.  All  well, 
as  I'm  a  pump.  Nobody  breaking  into  banks,  and  nobody 
kicking  up  rows  —  watchmen  fast  asleep,  and  every  body 
quiet.  But  I  can't  sleep.  No!  the  city  government  has 
murdered  sleep !  There's  something  heavy  on  my  buckets, 
and  I  fear  me,  I'm  a  gone  sucker !  They  thought  I  could'nt 
find  out  what  they  were  up  to  —  the  municipal  government 
—  but  I'm  a  deep  one,  and  I  know  every  thing  that's  going 
for'ard.  What  a  jolly  go,  to  be  sure  !  They  told  me  Mayor 
Bigelow  hated  proscription  —  but  I  knew  it  was  gammon  ! 
He  must  follow  the  fashion,  and  Cochituate  is  all  the  go. 
There  ain't  no  pumps  now  —  its  all  fountain !  Pump  water 
is  full  of  animalcule,  and  straddle  bugs  don't  exist  in  pond 
water  —  of  course  not.  Nobody  ever  see  young  polly wogs 
and  snapping  turtles  floating  down  stream  in  fly-time. 
Certainly  not !  I'm  getting  old  —  of  course  I  am ;  that's 
the  talk !  I've  been  in  office  too  long.  Well,  well,  I  know 
I'm  rather  asthmatic  and  phthisicky  —  but  nobody  ever 
knowed  me  to  suck,  even  in  the  driest  time.  These  living 
waters  have  welled  up  even  from  the  time  when  the  salt 
sea  was  divided  from  the  land,  and  the  rocks  were  cloven 
by  the  hand  of  Omnipotence,  and  the  sweet  spring  came 
bursting  upward  from  the  fragrant  earth,  and  light  and  flow 
ers  came  together  to  welcome  the  birthday  of  the  glad  and 
glorious  gift.  Here,  many  a  century  back,  the  giant  mastodon 
trod  the  earth  into  deep  hollows,  as  he  moved  upon  his  sound 
ing  path.  Then  came  another  time.  In  the  hollow  of  the 
three  hills,  the  Indian  raised  his  bark  wigwam,  and  the  smoke 
of  his  council  fire  curled  up  like  a  mist-wreath  in  the  forest. 
Here  the  red  man  filled  the  wild  gourd  cup  when  he  re 
turned  weary  from  the  chase  or  the  skirmish.  And  here, 


144:  THE    OLD    CITY   TUMP. 

too,  the  Indian  maiden  smoothed  her  dark  locks,  and  her 
lustrous,  laughing  eyes  gazed  upon  the  image  of  her  own 
dusky  beauty,  mirrored  on  the  surface  of  the  wave.  By 
and  by  the  red  man  ceased  to  drink  of  my  unfailing  rill. 
Beings  with  pale  faces  came  to  me  to  quench  their  thirst  ; 
bearded  lips  were  moistened  with  my  diamond  drops ;  and 
I  looked  up  upon  iron  corselet  and  steel  hauberk,  and  faces 
harder  than  either.  But  the  old  Puritans  gave  me  form 
and  substance  —  a  '  local  habitation  and  a  name.'  The 
spirit  of  the  fountain  was  wedded  to  its  present  tabernacle. 
The  dwellings  of  men  sprang  up  around  me  in  the  place  of 
the  departing  forest.  I  gave  them  all  a  cheerful  welcome. 
If  the  colonists  worked  hard,  I  worked  harder  yet.  I  filled 
their  pails  and  cups,  and  revived  their  failing  hearts,  and 
cheered  their  unremitting  labors.  They  called  me  their 
friend.  The  pretty  girls  smiled  upon  me,  as,  under  pre 
tence  of  levying  contributions  on  my  treasures,  they  chatted 
with  young  men  who  gathered  at  my  side.  Then  came  a 
sterner  period.  I  heard  no  more  love  tales  —  no  more  idle 
gossip.  Men  stood  here,  and  spoke  of  deep  wrong,  of 
tyranny,  of  trampled  rights,  of  resistance,  of  liberty !  That 
was  a  word  I  had  not  heard  since  the  red  man  drank  of  my 
unfettered  tide.  One  night,  there  was  a  great  gathering 
here.  There  were  men  and  boys,  a  multitude.  There  was 
much  angry  talk  and  much  confusion.  Then  I  heard  the 
roll  of  the  drum  and  the  regular  tramp  of  an  armed  force. 
A  band  of  British  soldiers,  all  resplendent  with  scarlet,  and 
gold,  and  burnished  muskets  that  glittered  in  the  moon 
beams,  were  formed  into  line  at  the  command  of  an  officer, 
and  confronted  the  dark  array  of  citizens.  Then  came  an 
angry  discussion  —  orders  on  the  part  of  the  commander 
for  the  multitude  to  disperse,  which  were  unheeded  or  dis 
obeyed.  Then  that  line  of  glittering  tubes  was  levelled. 


THE    OLD    CITY   PUMP.  145 

1  heard  the  fatal  word  "  fire  ! "  the  flame  leaped  from  the 
muzzles  of  the  muskets,  and  the  volley  crashed  and  echoed 
in  the  street.  Blood  flowed  upon  the  pavement  —  the 
blood  of  citizens  mingled  with  my  waters,  and  I  was  the 
witness  of  a  fearful  tragedy.  In  after  times,  I  heard  it 
named  the  Boston  Massacre.  Since  then,  I  have  seen 
hours  of  sunshine  and  triumph,  of  fun  and  frolic,  of  anger 
and  rejoicing.  My  waters  have  laved  the  dust  that  it  might 
not  soil  the  uniform  of  Washington  as  he  rode  past  on  his 
snow-white  charger,  amid  the  acclamations  of  the  multi 
tude.  I  have  seen  Hull  and  his  tars  pass  up  the  street, 
bearing  the  stripes  and  stars  in  triumph  from  the  war  of 
the  ocean.  I  have  heard  long-winded  orators  spout  over 
my  head  in  emulation  of  my  craft,  "  in  one  weak,  washy, 
everlasting  flood."  I  have  seen  many  a  military,  many 
a  civic  pageant.  The  last  I  witnessed  was,  as  Dick  Swivel- 
ler  remarks,  a  *'  stifler.'  It  was  that  confounded  Water 
Celebration.  Republics  is  ungrateful.  I  was  forgotten  on 
that  occasion.  Nobody  drank  at  the  old  city  pump.  Peo 
ple  sat  on  my  head  and  stood  on  my  nose,  just  as  if  I  had 
no  feelings.  I  heard  a  young  lady  in  the  gallery  overhead 
say,  *  Well,  that  horrid  old  pump  will  soon  be  out  of  the 
way  now.'  And  a  city  father  answered  her,  *  Of  course." 
It  was  a  workin'  then  —  treason  and  fate,  and  all  them 
things.  I  knew  they  were  going  to  *  put  me  out  of  my 
misery,'  as  the  saying  goes.  I'm  getting  superannuated  — 
I  heard  'em  say  so.  Sometimes  an  office  boy  tastes  a  drop, 
and  then  turns  up  his  nose,  —  as  if  it  wasn't  pug  enough  be 
fore, —  and  says,  *  What  horrid  stuff!  the  Cochituate  for 
my  money!'  General  Washington's  canteen  was  filled 
here  —  and  he  said,  «  Delicious ! '  when  he  raised  U  to  his 
lips.  But  he  was  no  judge,  of  course  not,  Time  was 
when  I  wasn't  slow  but  I'm  not  fast  enough  for  this  gen- 
13 


14:6  THE    OLD    CITY   PUMP 

eration.  When  folks  write  letters  with  lightning,  and  sail 
ships  with  tea-kettles,  pumps  can't  come  it  over  'em.  Well, 
well,  I'll  hold  out  to  the  last — I'll  make  'em  carry  me  off 
and  bury  me  decently  at  the  city's  expense,  and  perhaps 
some  kind  old  friend  will  write  my  epitaph." 

The  old  pump  was  mute  —  the  speech  was  ended  —  its 
"  song  had  died  into  an  echo."  We  passed  on  mournful 
and  thoughtful.  Republics  are  ungrateful  —  old  friends 
are  forgotten  with  a  change  of  fashion,  and  there  is  a  period 
to  the  greatness  of  town  pumps  as  well  as  the  glory  of  in 
dividuals. 


THE   TWO   PORTRAITS. 

"BEAUTIFUL!  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Ernest  Lavalle, 
as,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  he  contemplated, 
with  eyes  half  shut,  a  lovely  countenance  that  smiled  on 
him  from  a  canvas,  to  which  he  had  just  added  a  few  hesi 
tating  touches.  It  was  but  a  sketch  —  little  more  than 
outline  and  dead  coloring,  and  a  misty  haze  seemed  spread 
over  the  face,  so  that  it  looked  vision-like  and  intangible. 
The  young  painter's  exclamation  was  not  addressed  to  his 
workmanship  —  he  was  not  even  looking  at  that  faint 
image  ;  but,  through  its  medium,  was  gazing  on  lineaments 
as  rare  and  fascinating  as  ever  floated  through  a  poet's  or 
an  artist's  dream.  Deep,  lustrous  blue  eyes,  in  whose 
depth  sincerity  and  feeling  lay  crystallized ;  features  as 
regular  as  those  of  a  Grecian  statue ;  a  lip  melting,  ripe, 
and  dewy,  half  concealing,  half  revealing,  a  line  of  pearls  ; 
soft  brown  hair,  descending  in  waves  upon  a  neck  and 
Bhoulders  of  satin  surface  and  Parian  firmness.  Such 
were  some  of  the  external  traits  of  loveliness  belonging  to 

"  A  creature  not  too  bright  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food," 

who  had  completely  actualized  the  ideal  of  the  young  Pa 
risian  artist,  into  whose  studio  we  have  introduced  our 
readers.  The  fair  original,  whose  portrait  is  before  us,  was 
Kose  d' Amour,  a  beautiful  actress  of  one  of  the  metropoli- 

147 


148  THE    TWO    PORTRAITS. 

tan  theatres,  who  had  just  made  her  deb  at  with  distin 
guished  success.  There  was  quite  a  romance  in  her  history. 
Of  unknown  parents,  she  had  commenced  her  career  —  like 
the  celebrated  Rachel  —  as  a  street  singer,  and  was  looking 
forward  to  no  more  brilliant  future,  when  her  beauty, 
genius,  and  purity  of  character  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
distinguished  newspaper  editor,  by  whose  benevolent  gen 
erosity  she  was  enabled  to  prepare  herself  for  the  stage, 
by  two  or  three  years  of  assiduous  study.  The  success  of 
his  protegee  more  than  repaid  the  kind  patron  for  his  exer 
tions  and  expenditure. 

A  word  of  Ernest  Lavalle,  and  it  shall  suffice.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  humble  vine  dresser  in  one  of  the  agricul 
tural  departments  of  France.  His  talent  for  drawing, 
early  manifested,  attracted  the  notice  of  his  parish  priest, 
whose  earnest  representations  induced  his  father  to  send 
the  boy  to  Paris,  and  give  him  the  advantages  afforded  by 
the  capital  for  students  of  art.  In  the  great  city,  Ernest 
allowed  none  of  the  attractions,  by  which  he  was  surround 
ed,  to  divert  him  from  the  assiduous  pursuit  of  his  beloved 
art.  His  mornings  were  passed  in  the  gallery  of  the  Lou 
vre,  his  afternoons  in  private  study,  and  his  evenings  at  the 
academy,  where  he  drew  from  casts  and  the  living  model. 
The  only  relaxation  he  permitted  himself,  was  an  occasional 
excursion  in  the  picturesque  environs  of  the  French  capi 
tal  ;  and  he  always  took  his  sketch  book  with  him,  thus 
making  even  his  pleasure  subservient  to  his  studies.  Two 
prizes  pbtained,  for  a  drawing  and  a  picture,  secured  for 
him  the  patronage  of  the  academy,  at  whose  expense  he 
was  sent  to  Italy,  to  pursue  his  studies  in  the  famous  gal 
leries  of  Rome  and  Florence.  He  returned  with  a  mind 
imbued  with  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  the  works  of  those 
great  masters,  whose  glory  will  outlive  the  canvas  and 


THE   TWO   PORTRAITS.  149 

marble  which  achieved  it,  determined  to  win  for  himself  a 
niche  in  the  temple  of  Fame,  or  perish  in  his  laborious  ef 
forts  to  obtain  it.  At  this  time  he  was  in  his  twenty-second 
year.  A  vigorous  constitution  was  his  heritage  ;  and  his 
rounded  cheek  glowed  with  the  warm  color  of  health.  His 
strictly  classical  features  were  enhanced  by  the  luxuriance 
of  his  hair,  which  he  wore  flowing  in  its  native  curls,  while 
his  full  beard  and  mustache  relieved  his  face  from  the 
charge  of  effeminacy. 

Ernest  was  yet  engaged  in  the  contemplation  of  the  un 
finished  work  —  or  rather  in  dreaming  of  the  bright  original 
—  when  a  light  tap  was  heard  at  his  door.  He  opened  it 
eagerly,  and  his  poor  studio  was  suddenly  illuminated,  as  it 
were,  by  the  radiant  apparition  of  Rose  d'Amour.  She 
was  dressed  with  a  charming  simplicity,  which  well  became 
a  sylph  like  form,  that  required  no  adventitious  aid  from  art. 

"  Good  morning,  Monsieur  Lavalle!"  said  the  beautiful 
actress,  cheerfully,  as  she  dropped  gracefully  into  the  fan- 
teuil  prepared  for  her  reception.  "  You  find  me  in  the  best 
possible  humor  to-day,  thanks  to  this  bright  morning  sun, 
and  to  the  success  of  last  night.  Mon  Dieuf  so  many 
bouquets !  you  can't  think !  Really,  the  life  of  an  artiste 
begins  to  be  amusing.  Don't  you  find  it  so,  as  a  painter  ?  " 

"  I  confess  to  you,  mademoiselle,  I  have  my  moments  of 
despondency." 

"  With  your  fine  talent !  Think  better  of  yourself.  I 
hope,  at  least,  that  I  have  not  been  so  unlucky  as  to  sur 
prise  you  in  one  of  those  inopportune  moments." 

"Ah,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  painter,  "if  it  were  so, 
one  of  your  smiles  would  dispel  the  cloud  in  a  moment." 

"  Really  ! "  replied  the  actress,  gayly.     "  Are  you  quite 
sure  there  is  no  flattery  in  the  remark  ?     I  am  aware  that 
flattery  is  an  essential  part  of  an  artist's  profession." 
13*  K 


150  THE    TWO    PORTRAITS. 

"Not  of  a  true  artist's,"  replied  Ernest.  "The  aim  and 
end  of  all  art  is  truth  ;  and  he  who  forgets  it  is  untrue  to 
.his  high  mission." 

"  True,"  said  the  lady.  "  Well,  then,  faites  votre  pos 
sible —  as  Napoleon  said  to  his  friend  David  —  for  I  am 
anxious  that  this  portrait  shall  be  a  chef-d'oeuvre.  I  design 
it  for  a  present." 

"  With  such  a  subject'  before  me,"  replied  the  painter 
"I  could  not  labor  more  conscientiously,  if  the  picture  were 
designed  for  myself." 

The  sitting  passed  away  rapidly,  for  the  artist ;  and  he 
was  surprised  when  the  lady,  after  consulting  her  watch, 
rose  hastily,  and  exclaimed,  "That  odious  rehearsal!  I 
must  leave  you  —  but  you  ought  to  be  satisfied,  for  I  have 
given  you  two  hours  of  my  valuable  time.  Adieu,  then, 
until  to-morrow." 

With  a  smile  that  seemed  natural  to  her,  the  beautiful 
girl  vanished,  taking  with  her  half  the  sunshine  of  the  room. 

The  painter  continued  his  labor  of  love.  Indeed,  so  ab 
sorbed  was  he  in  his  employment,  that  he  did  not  notice  the 
entrance  of  a  visitor,  until  he  felt  a  light  tap  on  his  shoul 
der,  accompanied  by  the  words,  — 

"  Bravo,  mon  cher  !  You  are  getting  on  famously.  That 
is  Rose  herself — as  radiant  as  she  appears  on  the  stage, 
when  the  focus  of  a  lorgnette  has  excluded  all  the  stupid 
and  ennuyantes  figures  that  surround  her." 

The  speaker  was  Sir  Frederic  Stanley,  an  English 
baronet,  now  some  months  in  Paris,  where  he  had  plunged 
into  all  the  gayeties  of  the  season.  He  was  a  handsome 
man,  of  middle  age,  whose  features  bore  the  impress  of 
dissipation. 

"  You  know  the  original,  then  ?  "  asked  the  painter,  some* 
what  coldly. 


THE    TWO   PORTRAITS.  151 

"  Know  her !  My  dear  fellow,  I  don't  know  any  body 
else,  as  the  Yankees  say.  Why,  I  have  the  entry  of  the 
Gaite,  and  pass  all  my  evenings  behind  the  scenes.  I  flat 
ter  myself — but  no  matter.  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  that 
picture  :  what  do  you  say  to  a  hundred  louis  for  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  dispose  of  it." 

"  You  have  succeeded  so  well,  you  wish  to  keep  it  for 
yourself — eh  ?  Double  the  price,  and  let  me  have  it ! " 

"Impossible,  Sir  Frederic.  It  is  painted  for  Mile, 
d' Amour  herself,  and  she  designs  it  for  a  present." 

"  Say  no  more,"  said  the  baronet,  with  a  self-satisfied 
smile.  "  I  think  I  could  name  the  happy  individual." 

Ernest  would  not  gratify  his  visitor  by  a  question,  and 
the  latter,  finding  the  artist  reserved  and  distrait,  suddenly 
recollected  the  races  at  Chantilly,  and  took  his  leave. 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  thought  the  painter,  "  that  Rose 
has  suffered  her  affections  to  repose  on  that  conceited,  purse- 
proud,  elderly  Englishman  ?  O,  woman  !  woman  !  how 
readily  you  barter  the  wealth  of  your  heart  for  a  handful 
of  gold ! " 

Another  tap  at  the  door  —  another  visitor !  Really,  La- 
valle  must  be  getting  famous  !  This  time  it  is  a  lady  —  a 
lady  of  surpassing  loveliness  —  one  of  those  well-preserved 
Englishwomen,  who,  at  forty,  are  as  attractive  as  at  twenty. 
This  lady  was  tall  and  stately,  with  elegant  manners,  and 
perhaps  a  thought  of  sadness  in  her  expression.  She  gazed 
long  and  earnestly  upon  the  portrait  of  Rose  d' Amour. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  face ! "  she  said,  at  length.  "  And  one 
that  indicates,  I  should  think,  goodness  of  heart." 

"  She  is  an  angel ! "  said  the  painter. 

"You  speak  warmly,  sir,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  sad 
smile. 

Ernest  blushed,  for  he  feared  that  he  had  betrayed  his 


152  THE   TWO    PORTRAITS. 

secret.  The  lady  did  not  appear  to  notice  his  embarrass 
ment,  and  passed  to  the  occasion  of  her  visit,  which  was  to 
engage  the  young  artist  to  paint  her  portrait  —  a  task  which 
he  readily  undertook,  for  he  was  pleased  with,  and  inter 
ested  in,  his  fair  patroness.  The  picture  was  immediately 
commenced,  and  an  hour  fixed  for  a  second  sitting,  on  the 
next  day.  It  was  on  that  occasion  that  the  fair  unknown 
encountered  the  actress,  and  they  retired  in  company. 

The  two  portraits  were  finished  at  the  same  time,  and 
reflected  the  greatest  credit  upon  the  artist.  They  were 
varnished,  framed,  and  paid  for,  but  the  painter  had  re 
ceived  no  orders  for  their  final  disposition,  when,  one  morn 
ing,  he  was  waited  on  by  the  two  ladies,  who  informed  him 
that  they  should  call  upon  him  the  following  day,  when  the 
two  portraits  would  be  presented,  in  his  study,  to  the  per 
sons  for  whom  they  were  designed.  The  artist  was  en 
joined  to  place  them  on  two  separate  easels,  —  that  of  the 
actress  to  stand  nearest  the  door  of  the  studio,  and  both  to 
be  concealed  by  a  curtain  until  the  ladies  should  give  the 
signal  for  their  exposure.  The  portrait  of  the  English 
lady,  we  will  here  remark,  had,  by  her  request,  been  hith 
erto  seen  only  by  the  artist.  There  was  a  mystery  in  this 
arrangement,  which  piqued,  excessively,  the  curiosity  of 
the  painter,  and  he  was  anxious  to  witness  the  denouement. 

The  next  day,  at  eleven  o'clock,  every  thing  was  in  read 
iness,  and  the  painter  awaited  the  solution  of  the  mystery. 

The  first  person  who  presented  himself  was  Sir  Freder 
ic  Stanley.  He  was  very  radiant. 

"  Congratulate  me,  mon  cher"  said  he.     "  Read  that." 

Ernest  took  an  open  note  from  his  hand,  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

"Be  at  the  studio  of  Ernest  Lavalle,   to-morrow,  at 


THE    TWO    PORTRAITS.  153 

eleven.     You  will  there  receive  a  present,  which,  if  there 
be  any  truth  in  man's  vows,  will  certainly  delight  you. 

"  ROSE." 

The  astonishment  and  disappointment  of  Ernest  was  at 
its  height,  when  his  door  opened,  and  the  actress  entered, 
followed  by  a  female,  closely  veiled. 

"You  are  true  to  your  appointment,  Sir  Frederic," 
said  the  actress,  gayly,  "  and  your  punctuality  shall  be  re 
warded." 

She  advanced  to  the  farther  easel,  and,  lifting  the  cur 
tain,  disclosed  the  features  of  the  English  lady. 

"  This  is  for  you  !  "  she  said,  laughing. 

"My  wife!  by  all  that's  wonderful!"  exclaimed  the 
baronet. 

"Accompanied  by  the  original!"  said  Lady  Stanley,  as 
she  unveiled  and  advanced.  "  Sir  Frederic !  Sir  Freder 
ic  !  when  you  were  amusing  yourself,  by  paying  unmean 
ing  attentions  to  this  young  lady,  I  am  afraid  you  forgot  to 
tell  her  that  you  had  a  wife  in  England." 

"  I  thought  it  unnecessary,"  stammered  the  baronet. 

"  How  could  you  disturb  the  peace  of  mind  of  a  young 
girl,  when  you  knew  you  could  not  requite  her  affection  ?  " 
continued  Lady  Stanley. 

"It  was  only  a  flirtation,  to  pass  the  time,"  said  Sir 
Frederic ;  "  but  I  acknowledge  it  was  culpable.  My  dear 
Emeline,  I  thank  you  for  your  present.  I  shall  ever  cherish 
it  as  my  dearest  possession  —  next  to  yourself." 

"  For  you,  sir,"  said  the  beautiful  actress,  turning  to 
Ernest,  "  I  cannot  think  of  depriving  you  of  your  best 
effort.  Take  the  portrait.  I  wish  the  subject  were 
worthier."  And  she  withdrew  the  curtain  from  he* 
picture. 


154  THE   TWO    PORTRAITS. 

"I  am  ungrateful,"  said  Ernest,  in  a  low  and  tremulous 
torife.  "  Much  as  I  prize  the  picture,  I  can  never  be  happy 
without  the  original." 

"  Is  it  so  ?  "  replied  the  actress,  in  the  same  low  tone  of 
emotion  ;  then,  placing  her  hand  timidly  in  his,  she  added, 
"  The  original  is  yours ! " 


UNCLE  OBED. 

A  FULL  LENGTH  PORTRAIT  IN  PEN  AND  INK. 

UNSLE  OBED  —  we  omit  his  family  name  for  various 
reasons  —  lived  away  down  east,  in  a  small  but  flourishing 
village,  where  he  occupied  a  snug  house,  and  what  with  a 
little  farming,  a  little  fishing,  a  little  hunting,  and  a  little 
trading,  contrived,  not  only  to  make  both  ends  meet  at  the 
expiration  of  each  year,  but  accumulated  quite  a  little 
property. 

In  personal  appearance  he  was  small,  but  muscular  and 
wiry.  He  was  far  from  handsome ;  a  pug  nose,  set  be 
tween  a  pair  of  gooseberry  eyes,  a  long,  straight  mouth,  a 
head  of  hair  in  which  sandy  red  and  iron  gray  were  mixed 
together,  did  not  give  him  a  very  fascinating  aspect.  He 
rarely  smiled,  but  when  he  did,  his  smile  was  expressive  of 
the  deepest  cunning. 

Uncle  Obed  had  one  grievous  fault  —  an  unhappy  pro 
pensity  for  acquiring  the  property  of  others  —  "a  natural 
proclivity,"  as  General  Pillow  says,  to  stealing.  The  Spar 
tans  thought  there  was  no  harm  in  stealing  —  in  fact  that 
it  was  rather  meritorious  than  otherwise,  providing  that  it 
was  never  found  out ;  and  both  in  theory  and  practice,  Uncle 
Obed  was  a  thorough  Spartan.  A  few  of  his  exploits  in 
this  way  will  serve  to  show  his  extraordinary  'cuteness. 

A  neighbor  of  his  had  a  black  heifer  with  a  white  face, 

155 


156  UNCLE    OBED. 

which  occasionally  made  irruptions  into  Uncle  Obed's  pas 
turage.  One  evening,  Obed  made  a  seizure  of  her,  and  tied 
her  up  in  his  barn.  He  then  went  to  the  owner  of  the 
animal. 

"  Mr.  Stagg,"  said  he,  "  there's  been  a  cantankerous 
heifer  a  breaking  into  my  lot,  and  I've  been  a  lookin'  for  her, 
and  I've  cotched  her  at  last." 

"  Well,"  said  the  unconscious  Mr.  Stagg,  "  I  'spose  you're 
going  to  drive  her  to  the  pound." 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  answered  Uncle  Obed,  with  the  smile  we 
have  alluded  to,  "  I  know  a  trick  worth  two  of  that.  I'm 
going  to  kill  her ;  and  if  you  won't  say  nothing  to  nobody, 
but'll  come  up  to-night  and  help  me,  you  shall  hev  the 
horns  and  hide  for  your  trouble." 

"  Done,"  said  Mr.  Stagg.     « I'll  come." 

In  the  mean  time,  Uncle  Obed  took  a  pot  of  black  paint, 
and  covered  the  white  face  of  the  heifer,  so  as  to  prevent 
recognition.  The  neighbor  came  up  at  night,  and  helped 
despatch  his  own  "  critter,"  receiving  the  horns  and  hide  for 
his  pay,  and  laughing  with  Obed  to  think  how  cleverly  the 
owner  had  been  "  done." 

The  next  day  he  missed  his  heifer,  and  called  on  Obed 
to  ask  if  he  had  seen  her. 

"  I  hain't  seen  her  to-day,"  replied  Uncle  Obed,  "  but  if 
you'll  go  to  the  tannery,  where  you  sold  that  hide,  and  'li 
just  take  the  trouble  to  overhaul  it,  Mr.  Stagg,  prehap? 
you'll  find  out  where  your  heifer  is." 

jPrehaps  he  did. 

On  another  occasion  Uncle  Obed  appropriated  —  w« 
scorn  to  charge  him  with  stealing  —  a  cow  which  had  had  the 
misfortune  to  lose  her  tail.  Stepping  into  a  tannery,  he 
cut  off  a  tail,  and  sewed  it  on  to  the  fragment  which  yet 


UNCLE  OBED.  157 

decorated  the  hind  quarters  of  the  stolen  animal.  He  then 
drove  her  along  towards  the  next  market,  and  having  to 
cross  a  ferry,  had  just  got  on  board  the  boat  with  his  booty, 
when  down  came  the  owner  of  the  missing  cow,  "  bloody 
with  spurring,  fiery  red  with  haste/'  and  took  passage  on 
the  same  boat. 

He  eyed  his  cow  very  sharply,  while  Uncle  Obed  stood 
quietly  by,  watching  the  result  of  the  investigation. 

**  That's  a  pretty  good  cow,  ain't  it  ?  "  "said  Uncle  Obed 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  owner,  "  and  if  her  tail  was  cut  off,  I 
could  swear  it  was  mine." 

Uncle  Obed  quietly  took  his  knife  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
cutting  the  tail  short  off  above  where  the  false  one  was 
joined  on,  threw  it  into  the  river. 

"  Now,  neighbor,"  said  he,  triumphantly,  "  can  you  swear 
that's  your  cow  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  the  owner.  "  But  they  look  very 
much  alike." 

After  stealing  something  or  other,  we  forget  what,  Uncle 
Obed  was  observed,  and  the  sheriff  was  sent  in  pursuit  of 
him,  in  hot  haste,  mounted  on  a  fine  and  very  fast  horse. 
After  a  hard  run,  Uncle  Obed  halted  at  the  edge  of  a  rough 
piece  of  ground,  pulled  off  his  coat,  and  pulled  down  about 
a  rod  of  stone  wall,  then  quietly  went  to  work  building  it 
up  again,  as  if  that  was  his  regular  occupation. 

Presently  the  sheriff  came  riding  up  on  the  spur,  and 
reining  in,  asked  Obed  if  he  had  seen  a  fellow  running  for 
his  life. 

"  Yes,"  said  Obed,  "  I  see  him  jest  now  streakin'  it  like 
a  quarter  hoss  in  that  direction,"  pointing  off.     "  But  he 
was  pretty  nigh  blown,  and  I  'xpect-you  can  catch  him  in 
about  two  minnits." 
14 


158  UNCLE    OBED. 

"Well,  just  hold  my  horse,"  said  the  sheriff,  "and  I'D 
overhaul  him." 

The  sheriff  scrambled  over  the  stones  and  through  the 
bushes  in  the  direction  indicated,  and  the  moment  he  was 
out  of  sight,  Uncle  Obed  jumped  on  the  horse  and  rode 
off  at  the  top  of  his  speed.  He  rode  his  prize  to  a  town  a 
good  ways  off,  and  sold  the  horse  for  a  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars. 

For  some  similar  exploit,  he  was  arrested  and  committed 
to  jail  in  Essex  county,  to  await  his  trial.  But  the  prison 
being  then  in  a  process  of  repair,  Uncle  Obed,  with  other 
victims  of  the  law,  was  incarcerated  in  the  fort  in  Salem 
harbor.  He  made  his  escape,  however,  by  crawling  through 
the  sewer,  as  Jack  Sheppard  did  from  Newgate  prison. 
The  sentinel  on  duty  saw  a  mass  of  seaweed  floating  on 
the  surface  of  the  water.  Now,  this  was  nothing  extra 
ordinary,  but  it  was  extraordinary  for  seaweed  to  float 
against  the  tide.  Uncle  Obed's  head  was  in  that  floating 
mass.  He  was  hailed  and  ordered  to  swim  back.  He 
made  no  answer.  A  volley  of  musketry  was  discharged  at 
him,  but  no  boat  being  very  handy,  he  got  off  and  made  his 
escape,  very  much  after  the  manner  of  Rob  Roy  at  the  ford 
of  Avondow. 

Uncle  Obed  had  a  famous  black  Newfoundland  dog, 
worth  from  sixty  to  eighty  dollars.  When  hard  up,  he 
used  to  take  the  dog  about  fifty  or  a  hundred  miles  from 
home,  where  he  was  unknown,  and  sell  him.  No  matter 
what  the  distance  was,  the  dog  always  came  back  to  his 
old  master,  who  realized  several  hundred  dollars  by  the 
repeated  sales  of  him. 

Such  were  a  few  of  the  exploits  of  this  departed  worthy, 
actually  vouched  for  by  contemporaries.  His  passion  for 


UNCLE    OBED.  159 

etealing  was  undoubtedly  a  monomania,  for  he  was  known 
in  many  cases  to  make  voluntary  restitution  of  articles  that 
he  had  purloined,  and  his  circumstances  did  not  allow  him 
the  plea  of  necessity  which  palliates  the  errors  of  despe 
rately  poor  rogues  in  every  eye  except  that  of  the  law. 


THE   CASKET   OF   JEWELS. 

MR.  LUKE  BRANDON  was  a  Wall  Street  broker,  of  mod 
erate  business  capacity,  little  education,  and  of  plain  man 
ners,  partaking  of  the  rustic  simplicity  of  his  original  em 
ployment —  he  was,  in  early  life,  a  farmer  in  one  of  the 
western  counties  of  New  York.  With  less  talent  and  more 
cunning,  he  might  have  become  a  very  rich  man,  at  short 
notice ;  but  being  brought  up  in  an  old-fashioned  school  of 
morality,  he  could  never  learn  te  dignify  swindling  by  the 
epithet  of  smartness,  nor  consider  overreaching  his  neighbor 
a  "fair  business  transaction."  Hence  he  plodded  along 
the  even  tenor  of  his  way,  contented  with  moderate  profits, 
and  satisfied  with  the  prospect  of  becoming  independent  by 
slow  degrees. 

But  in  an  evil  hour,  during  a  fortnight's  relaxation  at  the 
Catskill  Mountain  House,  this  steady  and  respectable  gen 
tleman,  at  the  mature  age  of  thirty-five,  quite  an  old  bach 
elor  indeed,  fell  desperately  in  love  with  a  dashing  girl  of 
twenty,  the  orphan  daughter  of  a  bankrupt  ship  chandler. 
Miss  Maria  Manners  was  highly  educated ;  that  is,  she 
could  write  short  notes  on  perfumed  billet  paper,  without 
making  any  orthographical  or  grammatical  mistakes,  had 
taken  three  quarters'  lessons  of  a  French  barber,  could 
work  worsted  lapdogs  and  embroider  slippers,  danced 
like  a  sylph,  and  played  on  the  piano  indifferently  welL 
She  had  visited  the  Catskilh  on  a  matrimonial  specu« 

160 


THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS.  161 

lation,  and  made  a  dead  set  at  poor  Brandon.  Of  course 
with  his  experience  in  the  ways  of  women,  he  fell  a  ready 
dupe  to  the  fascinating  wiles  of  Miss  Manners.  She  kept 
him  in  an  agony  of  suspense  for  a  week,  during  every  even 
ing  of  which  she  waltzed  with  a  young  lieutenant  of  dra 
goons,  who  was  playing  billiards  and  drinking  champagne 
on  a  sick  leave,  until  she  could  hear  from  a  fabulous 
guardian  at  Philadelphia,  and  obtain  his  consent  to  a  sacri 
fice  of  her  brilliant  prospects  —  nothing  a  year  and  a  very 
suspicious  account  at  a  fashionable  milliner's. 

Mr.  Brandon  went  down  to  the  city,  purchased  a  snug 
house,  furnished  it  modestly,  gave  a  liberal  order  on  his 
tailor,  and  one  memorable  morning,  mtght  have  been  seen 
looking  very  uncomfortable,  in  a  white  satin  stock  and 
kids,  beside  a  lady  elegantly  dressed  in  satin  and  blonde 
lace,  while  a  portly  clergyman  pronounced  his  sentence  in 
the  shape  of  a  marriage  benediction. 

There  was  a  snug  wedding  breakfast  in  the  new  house, 
at  which  were  present  several  eminent  apple  speculators 
from  Fulton  market,  two  or  three  bank  clerks,  and  a  re 
porter  for  a  weekly  newspaper,  who  consumed  a  ruinous 
amount  of  sandwiches  and  bottled  ale. 

Before  the  honeymoon  was  over,  the  bride  began  to  dis 
play  some  of  the  less  amiable  features  of  her  character. 
She  sneered  at  the  situation  and  simplicity  of  the  establish 
ment,  and  protested  she  was  unaccustomed  to  that  sort  of 
style.  She  was  perfectly  sincere  in  this,  for  the  defunct 
ship  chandler  had  lived  in  a  basement  and  two  attic  cham 
bers. 

By  dint  of  repeated  persecutions,  she  induced  her  hus 
band  to  move  into  a  larger  house ;  and  finally,  after  the  ex 
piration  of  many  years,  we  find  them  established  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  city,  in  a  splendid  mansion,  looking  out 
14* 


162  THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS. 

upon  a  fashionable  square,  with  a  little  marble  boy  in  front 
sitting  on  a  brick,  and  spouting  a  stream  of  Croton  through 
a  clam  shell. 

One  morning,  Mr.  Brandon  came  home  about  eleven 
o'clock.  On  entering  his  front  door,  he  beheld,  lounging 
on  a  sofa,  with  the  Courrier  des  Etats  Unis  in  his  hand, 
Claude,  the  handsome  French  page  of  Mrs.  B. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  B.  ?  "  asked  the  elderly  broker. 

"  Madame  is  in  her  boudoir,"  replied  the  page  ;  "  but," 
he  added,  seeing  his  master  move  in  that  direction,  "  I  do 
not  know  whether  she  is  visible." 

"  That  I  will  ascertain  myself,  young  gentleman,"  replied 
the  broker,  with  a  slight  shade  of  irony  in  his  tone.  "  But 
tell  me,  is  there  any  one  with  her  ?  " 

"Only  M.  Auguste  Charmant,"  said  the  page. 

"  That  confounded  Frenchman  ! "  muttered  the  plebeian 
broker.  "  My  Yankee  house  is  turned  topsyturvy  by  these 
foreigners.  There's  a  French  cook,  and  a  French  cham 
bermaid,  and  the  friend  of  the  family  is  a  Frenchman.  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  eating,  and  I  hardly  understand  a 
word  that's  said  at  my  table.  Sometimes,  by  way  of  change, 
I  hey  talk  Italian  instead  of  French.  One  might  as  well  asso 
ciate  with  a  stack  of  monkeys.  Out  of  the  way,  jackanapes." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  page,  with  true  Gallic  dignity,  "  I 
was  about  to  proceed  to  announce  monsieur." 

"  Monsieur  can  announce  himself,"  replied  Brandon,  with 
the  grin  of  a  hyena ;  and  proceeding  up  stairs,  he  entered 
the  boudoir  without  knocking. 

Mrs.  Brandon  was  lounging  on  afauteuil,  in  an  elegant 
morning  toilet  —  literally  plunged  and  embowered  in 
costly  Brussels  lace.  Her  delicate,  bejewelled  fingers 
were  playing  with  the  petals  of  an  exquisite  bouquet.  Thanks 
to  a  good  constitution,  a  life  of  ease,  an  accomplished  milliner 


THE    C'ASKET    OF   JEWELS.  165 

and  an  incomparable  dentist,  the  fair  Maria,  though  the 
mother  of  a  marriageable  girl,  was  still  a  lovely  and  fascinat 
ing  wo-rnan,  and  Brandon,  as  he  gazed  on  her  superb  figure, 
almost  forgave  her  absurd  ambition  and  her  ruinous  extrava 
gance.  Still,  when  he  glanced  at  his  own  anxious,  ema 
ciate  i,  and  careworn  features,  in  the  splendid  Versailles 
mirror  that  hung  opposite,  his  transitory  pleasure  gave  way 
to  stern  and  bitter  feelings.  He  merely  nodded  to  his  wife, 
and  bowed  coldly  to  her  companion,  a  young  man  attired 
in  the  height  of  fashion,  with  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and  the 
most  superb  mustache  imaginable. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  Meestare  Brandon,"  said  the  dandy,  "  give 
me  your  hand.  I  congratulate  you  on  such  a  bonne  fortune 
—  such  good  luck  as  has  befallen  you." 

"  Explain  yourself,  sir,"  said  the  broker. 

"  Avec  plaisir.  I  have  secured  for  you  a  box  at  the 
opera  for  the  whole  season  —  and  for  only  five  hundred 
dollars. 

The  broker  whistled. 

"  Really  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon  ;  "  only  think  —  the 
best  troupe  we  have  yet  had  —  a  new  prima  donna  and  a 
new  basso" 

"  Fiddlestick  ! "  said  the  matter-of-fact  husband.  "  What 
does  it  amount  to  ?  " 

"  Brandon,"  said  the  lady  with  a  true  maternal  dignity, 
"reflect  upon  the  importance  of  the  opera  to  the  education 
of  your  daughter." 

u  Nonsense  !  "  said  the  broker,  angrily.  "  My  daughter 
Julia  would  please  me  much  better  if  she  cultivated  a  little 
common  sense,  and  adopted  the  plain,  republican  manners 
fitted  to  the  eventualities  of  her  future  life,  instead  of  aping 
foreign  fashions,  and  doing  her  best  to  denationalize  hex1 
character." 


Itfl  THE    CASKET    OF    JEWELS. 

Monsieur  Auguste  Charm  ant  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
Mrs.  Brandon  clasped  her  hands,  and  the  former,  rising? 
said, — 

"  Au  revoir,  madame,  au  plaisir,  Monsieur  Brandon.  I 
will  bid  you  good  morning,  and  leave  you  to  the  pleasures 
of  a  conjugal  tete-a-tete" 

Mr.  Brandon  rose  and  paced  the  room  to  and  fro  for 
several  minutes  after  the  departure  of  the  Frenchman,  nar 
rowly  eyed  by  Mrs.  Brandon,  who  was  anticipating  a 
"  scene,"  and  preparing  to  meet  it.  In  these  contests  the 
victory  generally  rested  with  the  lady.  The  broker 
finally  opened  the  door,  and  finding  the  page  with  ear  glued 
against  the  keyhole,  quietly  took  that  young  gentleman  by  the 
lobe  of  his  left  ear,  and  leading  him  to  the  head  of  the  stair 
case,  advised  him,  as  a  friend,  to  descend  it  as  speedily  as 
possible,  before  his  gravitation  was  assisted  by  the  appli 
cation  of  an  extraneous  power.  This  accomplished,  he 
returned  to  the  boudmr,  and  locking  the  door,  sat  down 
beside  his  wife.  The  latter  playfully  tapped  his  cheek 
with  her  bouquet,  but  the  broker  took  no  notice  of  the  co 
quettish  action,  and  gloomily  contemplating  his  gaiters,  as 
if  afraid  to  trust  his  eyes  with  the  siren  glances  of  his 
partner,  commenced :  — 

"  Mrs.  B.,  I  want  to  have  some  serious  talk  with  you." 

"  You  never  have  any  other  kind  of  small  talk,"  retorted 
the  tedy.  "  You  have  a  rare  gift  at  sermonizing." 

Mr.  Brandon  passed  over  the  sneer,  and  continued :  — 

"  You  alluded  just  now  to  Julia ;  it  is  of  her  I  wish  to 
speak.  Let  me  remind  you  of  her  future  prospects,  and 
ask  you  whether  it  be  not  time  to  change  your  system  of 
educating  her,  and  prepare  her  for  a  change  of  life.  You 
will  remember  then,  that,  two  years  ago,  with  the  consent 


THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS.  165 

of  all  parties,  she  was  engaged  to  Arthur  Marton,  a  Tery 
promising  young  dry  goods  merchant  of  Boston." 

"  Only  a  retail  merchant,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon. 

"  A  promising  young  merchant,  the  son  of  my  old  friend 
Jasper  Merton.  It  was  agreed  between  us  that  I  should 
bestow  ten  thousand  dollars  on  my  daughter,  and  Merton 
an  equal  sum  upon  his  son.  In  case  of  the  failure  of  either 
party  to  fulfil  the  engagement,  the  father  of  the  party  was 
to  forfeit  to  the  aggrieved  person  the  sum  of  ten  thousand 
dollars.  This  very  week,  I  expect  my  old  friend  and  his 
son  to  ratify  the  contract.  You  know  with  what  difficulty, 
owing  to  the  enormous  expenses  of  our  mode  of  life,  I  have 
laid  aside  the  stipulated  sum  ;  for  in  your  hands,  the  hands 
of  the  mother  of  my  child,  I  have  lodged  this  sacred  de 
posit." 

"  Very  true,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  it  is  now  in  my 
secretary,  under  lock  and  key.  But  what  an  odious  ar 
rangement  !  How  the  contract  and  the  forfeit  smell  of  the 
shop ! " 

•'  Don't  despise  the  smell  of  the  shop,  Maria,"  said  the 
broker,  smiling  gravely,  "  it  is  the  smell  of  the  shop  that 
perfumes  the  boudoir." 

"  And  then  Arthur  Merton  is  such  a  shocking  person," 
continued  the  lady ;  "  really,  no  manners." 

"  To  my  mind,  Maria,"  said  the  broker,  "  his  manners, 
plain,  open,  and  frank,  are  infinitely  superior  to  those 
of  the  French  butterfly  who  is  always  fluttering  at  your 
elbow." 

"  And  if  he  is  always  fluttering  at  my  elbow,"  retorted 
the  lady,  "  it  is  because  you  are  always  away." 

"  That  is  because  I  always  have  business,"  said  the  bro 
ker.  "  If  we  lived  in  less  style,  I  should  have  more  leisure. 
Ah !  Maria !  Maria !  I  fear  that  we  are  driving  on  too 

L 


166  THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS. 

recklessly ;  the  day  of  reckoning  will  come  —  we  seem  to 
be  sailing  prosperously  now,  but  a  shipwreck  may  termi 
nate  the  voyage." 

"  Not  while  I  have  the  helm,"  said  the  lady.  "  Listen  to 
me,  Brandon.  You  know  little  of  the  philosophy  of  life. 
To  command  success,  we  must  seem  to  have  obtained  it. 
To  be  rich,  we  must  seem  so.  You  have  done  well  to  fol 
low  my  advice  in  one  particular.  You  have  taken  a  very 
prominent  part  in  the  present  presidential  canvass.  There 
cannot  fail  to  be  a  change  of  administration,  and  while  you 
have  been  making  yourself  conspicuous  in  public,  I  have 
been  electioneering  for  you  in  private.  I  have  been  feast 
ing  and  petting  the  men  who  hold  the  winning  cards  in 
their  hands.  It  is  not  for  mere  ostentation  that  I  have  in 
vited  to  my  soirees,  the  Hon.  Mr.  A.,  and  Judge  B.,  and 
Counsellor  C." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you're  driving  at,"  said  the  broker. 

"  O,  of  course  not.  But  when  you  find  yourself  a  mil- 
lionnaire,  and  all  by  the  scheming  of  your  wife,  perhaps,  B^ 
you'd  think  there  was  some  wisdom  in  what  you  are  pleased 
to  call  my  fashionable  follies.  But  to  make  the  matter 
plain  —  a  change  of  administration  occurs  —  you  are  the 
confidential  friend  of  the  secretary  of  the  treasury  —  your 
talents  as  a  financier  are  duly  recognized  —  you  have  the 
management  of  the  most  important  loans  and  Contracts  — 
you  have  four  years,  perhaps  eight,  to  flourish  in,  and  your 
fortune  is  made." 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  broker,  doubtfully. 

"  If  such  success  attends  you,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  it,  how  painful  would  be  your  reflections,  if  you  thou<£  * 
that  you  had  sacrificed  your  daughter's  future  in  an  allian^ 
with  a  petty  trader.  I  have  arranged  a  brighter  destiny  foi 
her  —  a  marriage  with  a  foreign  nobleman." 


THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS.  167 

*  I'd  rather  see  her  the  wife  of  a  Yankee  peddler." 

"  Out  upon  you ! "  cried  the  lady.  "  I  tell  you,  you* 
opposition  will  have  little  weight,  Mr.  B.  Come  to  my 
soiree  this  evening,  and  I  will  present  you  to  Count  Alfred 
de  Roseville,  an  exile  from  France  for  political  offences  — 
only  think,  B.,  he  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Henry  V." 

"  And  who  vouches  for  this  paragon  ?  " 

"  Our  friend,  Auguste." 

"  Tour  friend,  Auguste,  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  M.  Charmant,  the  friend  of  the  family." 

"  And  what  does  Julia  think  of  this  Phoenix  ?  " 

"  She  adores  him." 

"  Alas !  how  her  gentleness  of  nature  must  have  been 
perverted !  Well,  well,  Maria,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  cannot 
resolve  to  humble  your  pride,  or  thwart  your  schemes.  I 
believe  you  love  me  and  your  daughter.  Yet  you  are  play 
ing  a  desperate  game  —  remember,  our  all  is  staked  upon 
the  issue." 

"  And  I'll  await  the  hazard  of  the  die,"  replied  Mrs.  B., 
as  she  kissed  her  husband  fondly,  and  dismissed  him  with  a 
wave  of  the  hand. 

When  Brandon  came  down  into  the  hall,  he  was  thun 
der-struck  at  meeting  there  three  persons,  whose  appear 
ance,  after  what  had  just  passed  up  stairs  in  the  boudoir, 
might  well  be  considered  inopportune.  The  first  was  uncle 
Richard  Watkins,  a  relative  of  Mr.  Brandon's,  who  resided 
in  the  country,  and  had  become  immensely  rich  by  land 
speculations,  and  the  others  were  Mr.  Merton  and  his 
eon.  A  pile  of  baggage  announced  that  they  were  not  mere 
callers. 

"  Give  us  your  hand,  Luke,"  said  uncle  Richard,  ex 
tending  his  enormous  brown  palm,  "  you  ain't  glad  to  see 
me,  nor  nothin',  be  you  ?  Brought  my  trunk,  valise,  carpet 


1  38  THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS. 

bag,  and  hatbox,  and  cal'late  to  spend  six  weeks  here. 
How's  the  old  woman  and  the  gal  —  pretty  smart  ?  Well, 
that's  hearty." 

The  broker  shook  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  and  then 
turned  to  welcome  with  the  best  grace  he  could  his  friend 
Merton,  and  his  proposed  son-in-law. 

"  You  know  what  we've  come  for,"  said  the  elder  Merton, 
with  a  sly  wink. 

"  Pray  walk  into  the  drawing  room,"  said  the  broker, 
and  *  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent,'  he  threw  wide  the  door, 
and  the  party  entered. 

Ah!  unlucky  Brandon!  why  didst  thou  not  summon 
the  French  page  to  announce  thy  guests?  Thou  hadst 
then  been  spared  a  scene  that  might  have  figured  in  a 
comedy,  and  came  near  furnishing  material  for  a  tragedy. 

An  elegant  young  man  was  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  an 
elegant  young  lady.  The  former  was  Count  Alfred  de 
Roseville,  the  latter  Miss  Julia  Brandon.  The  count  start 
ed  to  his  feet,  the  young  lady  blushed  and  shrieked.  The 
count  was  the  first  to  recover  his  voice  and  self-possession. 
Rushing  to  the  broker,  he  exclaimed  in  broken  English,  — 

"  O,  my  dear  monsieur,  how  I  moost  glad  to  see  you  — 
your  daughter  —  Mees  Julie  —  she  'ave  say  —  yais  —  yais 
—  yais  —  to  my  ardent  love  suit  —  and  now  I  have  the 
honneur  to  salute  her  respectable  papa." 

"  O,  father,"  said  the  terrified  girl,  "  it  was  with  mother's 
knowledge  and  consent." 

Brandon  could  not  speak  a  word. 

"  This  lady,  sir,"  said  Merton,  fiercely,  advancing  to  the 
count,  "  is  my  affianced  bride." 

"Your  bride  —  eh?  "cried  the  count,  "  when  she  has 
just  come  to  say  —  yais  —  to  my  ardent  love  suit !  " 


THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS.  169 

"  What  does  the  gal  say?  what  does  the  gal  say?"  asked 
uncle  Richard,  interposing. 

"  Speak,  Julia,"  said  her  father,  sternly,  "  and  weigh 
well  your  words.  I  will  not  force  you  to  fulfil  a  contract 
against  your  will  —  the  penalty  and  contingency  of  such  a 
refusal  have  been  provided  for  —  but  pause  before  you  re 
ject  the  son  of  ray  old  friend  for  a  foreigner — a  man  with 
whom  you  can  have  had  but  a  few  days'  acquaintance." 

Julia  averted  her  eyes,  and  blushed  scarlet,  but  placed 
her  hand  in  that  of  the  count  just  as  her  mother  entered 
the  apartment. 

"  Enough,"  said  young  Merton,  "  I  am  satisfied.  Come, 
father,  let  us  retire  —  our  presence  here  is  only  a  burden. 
O,  Julia ! "  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  "  little  did 
I  expect  this  at  your  hands.  I  have  looked  forward  to  this 
meeting  with  the  fondest  hope.  It  is  past  —  farewell  — 
may  you  be  happy." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  you  again  —  nevair ! " 
said  the  count. 

"  O,  as  to  that,"  said  young  Merton,  approaching  him, 
asvl  addressing  him  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  think  you,  at  least, 
have  not  seen  the  last  of  me,  monsieur.  At  any  rate,  you 
shall  hear  from  me  soon." 

" I  'ave  not  nozzin  to  do  nor  not  to  say  viz  canaille"  said 
the  count. 

"  Then,  perhaps,  it  will  be  more  agreeable  to  you,  sir,  to 
be  horsewhipped  in  Broadway,"  said  Merton. 

"  Me !  horsevhip !  me !  the  friend  of  Henri  V. !  hor- 
reur!"  cried  the  count. 

"  Very  good,  monsieur,  I  have  presented  the  alternative. 
Where  may  you  be  found  ?  " 

«  Hotel  de  Ville  —  City  Hotel." 

"Auplaisir,  then  Count  Alfred  de  Roseville,"  said  Mer 
15 


170  THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS. 

ton,  glancing  at  the  card  the  Frenchman  handed  Him. 
"  Come,  father." 

"  Mr.  Brandon,  I  shall  wait  on  you  at  your  counting  room 
in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  senior ;  "  we 
have  an  account  to  settle  together." 

And  the  father  and  son  bowed  themselves  out  of  the 
room.  Julia  was  so  much  agitated  at  the  events  which  had 
just  transpired,  that  she  was  compelled  to  retire  to  her 
room.  Uncle  Richard  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brandon  remained 
upon  the  field  of  battle. 

"  Well,  Maria,"  said  the  broker,  "  the  first  act  of  the 
comedy  has  been  played,  in  which  you  have  assigned  me  a 
very  insignificant  and  low-comedy  part,  but  I  don't  think 
either  of  us  has  made  a  very  distinguished  figure  in  it.  I 
hope  the  last  act  will  redeem  the  first." 

The  lady  reddened,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Let  us  foot  up  the  column  to  see  what  amount  is  to  be 
carried  forward,"  continued  the  broker.  "  Here's  an  old 
friendship  dissolved — a  worthy  young  man  broken  hearted 
—  a  suspicious  suitor  introduced  into  my  family,  and  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  be  paid  on  demand.  A  very  pretty 
morning's  work." 

"  It  will  come  out  right,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon. 

"  As  the  boy  remarked  when  he  was  gored  by  the  cow's 
horn,"  observed  uncle  Richard,  philosophically,  as  he  ex 
tended  his  length  upon  an  ottoman,  including  his  boots  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  comfort  of  cut  velvet 

"  I  leave  uncle  Richard  to  your  care,  madam,"  said  the 
broker,  "  while  I  go  down  in  town  to  ascertain  the  value  of 
my  new  son-in-law's  paper  upon  'change." 

On  an  evening  not  long  after  the  above  scenes,  the  bro* 
ker's  house  was  brilliantly  lighted  up  from  basement  to 


THE    CASKET    OF    JEWELS.  171 

attic.  Through  the  open  hall  door,  at  the  head  of  the 
flight  of  marble  steps,  servants  in  livery  were  seen  re 
ceiving  the  shawls  and  hats  of  the  guests,  as  carriage  after 
carriage  deposited  its  brilliant  contents  at  the  house  of  the 
financier.  Mingled  with  the  black  coats  of  the  gentlemen, 
and  the  gossamer  attire  of  the  ladies,  were  seen  the  bril 
liant  uniforms  of  officers  of  the  army  and  navy.  The 
crowd  poured  into  the  magnificent  ball  room,  where,  flanked 
by  her  husband,  and  by  the  indefatigable  Monsieur  Char- 
mant,  the  lovely  hostess  received  her  guests  with  an  ele 
gance  of  manner  truly  aristocratic.  The  delicious  waltzes 
of  Strauss,  performed  by  a  German  band,  floated  through 
ihe  magnificent  rooms.  Glistening  chandeliers  poured 
down  a  flood  of  soft  light  on  the  fair  faces  and  the  polished 
ivory  shoulders  of  the  ladies.  It  was  a  scene  of  enchant 
ment,  and  Mrs.  Brandon  revelled  in  the  splendor  that  sur 
rounded  her  and  the  incense  that  was  offered.  She  was 
pleased  at  the  distinguished  appearance  of  her  husband, 
pleased  to  see  her  daughter  hanging  on  the  arm  of  the 
French  count,  pleased  at  every  thing  but  one.  One  object 
alone,  like  the  black  mask  at  the  bridal  of  Hernani,  marred 
the  festivity,  and  created  a  discord  in  the  midst  of  the  har 
mony —  that  was  uncle  Richard,  walking  up  and  down  the 
ball  room  in  a  meal-colored  coat  and  cowhide  boots. 

Various  efforts  were  made  to  get  possession  of  uncle 
Richard  and  lead  him  away  into  captivity.  A  whist  table 
was  suggested  in  an  anteroom,  an  Havana  was  proposed  in 
the  library,  but  he  "  didn't  want  to  play  cards,  and  had  just 
quit  smoking,"  and  so  he  paraded  his  coat  and  boots  before 
the  company,  the  "  observed  of  all  observers." 

Mrs.  B.  made  the  best  of  it,  whispering  confidentially 
that  he  was  a  distant  connection,  immensely  rich,  partially 
insane,  but  perfectly  harmless.  O,  how  dazzling  was  Mrs, 


172  THE    CASKET    OF    JEWELS 

Brandon  that  evening,  in  the  beauty  of  her  person  and  of 
her  attire !  She  wore  diamonds  that  were  valued  at  ten 
thousand  dollars. 

In  the  midst  of  the  brilliant  festivities,  Mr.  Brandon  was 
suddenly  summoned  from  the  ball  room.  He  presently  re 
turned,  looking  very  pale,  and  beckoned  his  wife,  who  fol 
lowed  him  into  the  library.  Mr.  Merton,  senior,  was  there, 
with  a  very  stern  expression  on  his  countenance. 

"  What's  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Brandon. 

"  The  matter,"  said  her  husband,  "  is  simply  this  —  Mr. 
Merton  leaves  town  to-night  for  Philadelphia,  on  special 
business,  and  having  occasion  for  a  large  sum  of  money, 
requires  the  immediate  payment  of  the  ten  thousand  dol 
lars  which  are  due  him  for  our  violation  of  the  marriage 
contract." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  and  I  called  on  your 
husband  for  it,  and  he  referred  me  to  you  as  having  the 
deposit  in  your  possession." 

"  Wouldn't  to-morrow  do  as  well  ?  "  asked  the  lady  anx 
iously. 

"  No,  madam,  my  necessity  is  urgent." 

"  Go,  Maria,"  said  the  broker,  "  and  bring  the  money 
instantly.  A  debt  like  this  admits  of  no  postponement." 

"  Alas !  alas  !  "  stammered  the  poor  woman,  "  I  have  not 
this  money  by  me.  Surely,  Mr.  Brandon,  you  must  be 
able  to  command  it." 

"  Not  one  dollar,  madam,"  said  the  broker.  "  I  would 
have  spared  you  this  explanation  to-night,  but  you  have 
brought  it  on  yourself.  This  is  our  last  night  of  factitious 
splendor  —  my  affairs  are  in  inextricable  confusion  —  lossej 
have  this  day  come  to  light  which  complete  my  ruin  — 
and  to-morrow  the  world  will  know  me  as  a  bankrupt." 

Mrs.  Brandon  wrung  her  hands  and  sobbed  bitterly. 


THE    CASKET    OF    JEWELS.  173 

"l3ut  that  is  a  grief  for  to-morrow,"  said  the  broker 
sternly.  "  There  is  music  and  dancing,  champagne  and 
flowers,  in  the  next  room  —  enough  glory  for  to-night.  Buf 
this  business  of  Mr.  Morton's  requires  instant  attention 
What  have  you  done  with  the  ten  thousand  dollars  ?  Have 
you  dared  to  squander  it  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon  earnestly.  "  I  am  not  so 
bad  as  that.  I  deposited  it  with  Sandford,  the  jeweller,  of 
whom  I  hired  the  casket  of  jewels  to  deck  myself  to 
night." 

"  Mr.  Merton,"  said  the  broker,  calmly,  "  I  shall  have  to 
trouble  your  patience  a  little  while  longer.  I  will  write 
instantly  to  Mr.  Sandford,  late  as  it  is,  and  bid  him  bring  the 
money  here  at  once." 

After  despatching  the  note,  Brandon  and  his  wife  re 
turned  to  the  ball  room.  O,  how  insipid  to  the  lady's  ear 
seemed  now  the  babble  of  her  guests !  The  flowers  had 
lost  their  perfume  —  the  music  its  divine  influence.  Yet, 
with  the  serpent  of  remorse  and  anguish  gnawing  at  her 
heart,  she  was  fprced  to  smile  and  seem  happy  and  at  ease. 
A  half  hour  passed  in  this  way  seemed  an  age  of  torture ; 
and  when  the  messenger  despatched  by  her  husband  had 
returned  and  summoned  them  again  to  the  library,  it  gave 
her  inexpressible  relief. 

"  0,  Mr.  Sandford  ! "  she  exclaimed  to  the  jeweller,  who 
was  now  added  to  the  party,  "  how  happy  I  am  to  see  you ! 
There  is  your  casket  —  and  here  are  your  diamonds  !  "  and 
she  tore  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  ears,  and  wrists,  and 
offered  them  to  the  jeweller. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  jeweller,  gravely,  after  having"  ex 
amined  the  gems,  "  these  are  not  the  articles  I  furnished 
you.     I  lent  you  a  set  of  diamonds  —  these  are  paste ! " 
15* 


174  THE    CASKET    OF   JEAVELS. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ? "  asked  the  broker 
Bternly. 

"  I  know  not.  I  cannot  explain.  O,  Luke !  Luke !  1 
am  innocent ! "  and  Mrs.  Brandon  sunk  fainting  into  a 
chair. 

When  she  had  recovered  her  senses,  Mr.  Brandon 
asked,  — 

"  Did  you  make  this  arrangement  in  person  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied  ;  "  it  was  through  the  mediation  of  Mr. 
Charm  ant." 

"  Let's  send  for  him,"  said  Merton. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  broker ;  "  an  idea  has  occurred  to  me. 
I  have  observed  at  times  that  this  Monsieur  Charrnant  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  to  your  French  page,  my  good  lady." 

"  It  was  he  that  recommended  Claude,"  said  Mrs.  Bran 
don. 

"  Then  we  will  have  Claude  before  us,"  said  the  broker. 

Claude  soon  made  his  appearance. 

"  Claude,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon,  "do  you  know  any  thing 
about  this  casket  of  jewels?" 

The  boy  changed  color,  but  shook  his  head. 

"  Now,  my  Christian  friend,"  said  the  broker,  "you  need 
not  tell  us  what  you  know  about  the  jewels,  if  you  are  un 
willing;  but  in  case  of  your  refusal,  I  shall  send  for  a  police 
officer,  who  will,  undoubtedly,  drum  the  whole  affair  out  of 
you." 

The  threat  had  the  desired  effect.  The  boy  confessed 
that  Charmant  and  De  Roseville  were  impostors  —  that 
they  were  not  even  Frenchmen,  but  a  brace  of  London 
thieves,  who  had  picked  up  a  knowledge  of  French  during 
$,  professional  tour  on  the  continent,  and  who  had  emigrated 
to  America  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  their  art  among 
our  unsophisticated  countrymen.  Charmant  had  been  a 


'  THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS.  175 

jeweller,  and  this  enabled  him  to  counterfeit  the  gems  ob 
tained  of  Mr.  Sandford,  which  he  purposed  disposing  of  at 
the  first  favorable  opportunity.  The  boy  believed  that 
Charmant  had  them  about  him  at  that  moment.  In  Eng 
land,  Charmant  was  known  as  French  Jack,  and  Roseville 
as  Kusty  Joe. 

"•  Go  back  to  the  ball  room,"  said  Mr.  Merton  to  Bran 
don,  "  and  take  your  wife  with  you.  Mr.  Sandford,  you 
stay  by  the  boy.  I'll  go  for  an  officer." 

Brandon  and  his  lady  returned  to  the  ball  room,  the  lat 
ter  somewhat  relieved,  but  mortified  at  the  deceptions 
which  had  been  practised  on  her. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  burly  member  of  the  police,  with  a 
very  thick  stick,  and  a  very  red  handkerchief  knotted  round 
his  neck,  made  his  appearance,  to  the  astonishment  and 
consternation  of  the  guests,  amid  whom  the  host  and 
hostess  alone  testified  no  excitement  or  alarm. 

"  Sarvant,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  sarvant,"  said  the  legal 
functionary,  scraping  his  right  boot,  and  plucking  desperate 
ly  at  the  brim  of  his  hat.  "  Don't  let  me  interrupt  yer 
innercent  amusement  —  sorry  to  intrude,  as  the  bull  said 
when  he  rushed  into  the  china  shop  —  but  business  before 
pleasure  —  now  then,  my  hearty !  how  are  you  ?  " 

The  last  words  were  accompanied  by  a  vigorous  blow  on 
the  shoulder  of  M.  Auguste  Charmant,  who  was  at  that  mo 
ment  paying  his  attentions  to  a  belle  from  Union  Square. 

"  Monsieur  me  parle-t-il  ? "  exclaimed  the  dandy,  with 
well-feigned  astonishment. 

"  O,  nix  the  lingo,  French  Jack,"  said  the  officer,  "  or 
leastways  patter  Romany  so's  a  cove  can  understand  you. 
Fork  over  them  are  dimonds  —  or  else  it  will  go  harder 
with  you.  The  boy's  peached,  and  the  game's  up  —  you 
were  spotted  long  ago." 


176  THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS. 

With  a  smothered  curse,  French  Jack  dived  his  hand 
into  his  vest  pocket  and  produced  the  stolen  jewels.  "While 
this  was  enacting,  the  count  had  been  quietly  stealing  to  the 
door,  but  the  vigilant  officer  had  an  eye  upon  his  move 
ments,  and  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  before  he  could 
escape. 

"  Now  I've  got  the  pair  of  you,"  said  the  worthy  man, 
chuckling  apoplectically  in  the  folds  of  his  red  handkerchief. 
*'  Now,  don't  ride  rusty,  Joe  —  for  there's  a  small  few  of  us 
outside  with  amazin'  thick  sticks,  that  might  fall  on  your 
head  and  hurt  you,  if  so  be  you  happened  to  be  rambus- 
tical." 

"  Curse  the  luck  ! "  muttered  the  thief,  as  with  his  com 
panion  he  marched  off. 

It  may  well  be  imagined  that  the  scene  dispersed  the 
party  in  a  hurry.  They  took  French  leave,  like  birds 
scattered  by  a  sudden  storm.  Julia  was  carried  to  bed  in 
hysterics,  accompanied  by  her  mother.  Merton  and  the 
jeweller  had  disappeared,  the  three  rogues  had  been  taken 
into  custody,  and  only  Brandon  and  uncle  Richard 


trod  alone 


The  banquet  hall  deserted." 

"  Well,  uncle,"  said  the  broker,  bitterly,  "  the  game's  up. 
I  have  been  ruined,  stock  and  fluke,  by  letting  my  wife 
have  her  own  way,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  be  a  bankrupt." 

"  No  you  won't,"  said  uncle  Richard. 

"  Yes  I  shall,"  said  the  broker,  angrily.  "  And  Julia, 
abandoned  by  her  lover,  will  be  broken  hearted." 

"  No  she  won't,"  said  uncle  Richard. 

"  Who's  to  prevent  it  ?  "  asked  the  broker. 

u  Uncle  Richard,"  replied  that  personage.     "  What's  the 


THE    CASKET    OF   JEWELS.  177 

nse  of  a  friend,  unless  he's  a  friend  in  need.  I've  got 
plenty  of  money,  and  neither  chick  nor  child  in  the  world. 
I'll  meet  your  liabilities  with  cash.  Young  Merton  loves 
Julia  in  spite  of  her  temporary  alienation  —  he  will  gladly 
take  her  back.  The  rogues  will  get  their  deserts.  Your 
wife,  sick  and  ashamed  of  her  fashionable  follies,  will  glad 
ly  gin'  up  this  house  and  the  servants.  You'll  buy  a  little 
country  seat  on  the  Hudson,  and  I'll  come  and  live  with 
you." 

As  every  thing  turned  out  exactly  as  uncle  Richard 
promised  and  predicted,  we  have  no  occasion  to  enlarge  on 
the  fortunate  subsiding  of  this  "  sea  of  troubles." 


ACTING  CHARADES 

But,  masters,  remember  that  I  am  an  ass  ;  though,  it  be  not  written 
down,  yet  forget  not  that  I  am  an  ass.  —  SHAK.SPEARE,  Much  Ado  abcui 
Nothing. 

MANY  of  our  readers  have  doubtless  witnessed,  or  per 
chance  participated  in,  the  amusement  of  acting  charades  — 
a  divertisement  much  in  vogue  in  social  circles,  and  if 
cleverly  done,  productive  of  much  mirth.  To  the  unin 
itiated,  a  brief  description  of  an  acted  charade  may  not  be 
unacceptable.  A  word  of  two  or  more  syllables  is  selected, 
each  part  of  which  must  make  sense  by  itself  —  as,  for  in 
stance,  the  word  inspector,  which  would  be  decomposed, 
thus ;  inn  spectre.  The  company  of  performers  would 
then  extemporize  a  scene  at  a  public  house,  leaving  the 
spectators  to  guess  at  the  first  syllable,  inn.  The  second 
scene  would  represent  the  terror  occasioned  by  the  appa 
rition  of  a  phantom,  and  give  the  second  part  of  the  word 
spectre.  The  third  scene  would  represent  the  whole  word, 
and  would  perhaps  be  a  brigade  inspector  reviewing  his 
troops,  giving  occasion  for  the  humors  of  a  Yankee  mi 
litia  training.  Much  ingenuity  is  required  in  the  selection 
of  a  word,  and  in  carrying  out  the  representation,  with  ap 
propriate  dialogue,  &c. 

Acting  charades  generally  turns  a  house  topsy  turvy ; 
wardrobes  and  garrets  are  ransacked  for  costumes  and 
properties ;  hats,  canes,  umbrellas,  and  firearms  are  mus- 

178 


ACTING    CHARADES.  179 

tered,  and  old  dresses  that  haven't  seen  the  light  for  forty 
years  are  rummaged  out  as  disguises  for  the  actors  in  these 
extempore  theatricals. 

In  a  certain  circle  in  this  city  there  was  a  knot  of  clever 
young  people,  of  both  sexes,  strongly  addicted  to  acting 
charades,  and  very  happy  in  their  execution.  But  they 
were  unfortunately  afflicted  by  an  interloper, 

"  Whose  head 
Was  not  of  brains  particularly  full,  " 

one  of  those  geniuses  who  have  a  fatal  facility  for  making 
blunders.  Yet,  with  a  pleasing  unconsciousness  of  his  de 
ficiencies,  he  was  always  volunteering  his  services,  and  al 
ways  expected,  in  this  matter  of  acting  charades,  to  be 
intrusted  with  the  leading  parts. 

One  evening  the  usual  coterie  was  assembled,  charades 
were  proposed,  as  usual,  and  the  little  knot  of  performers 
retired  to  the  back  drawing  room,  dropping  the  curtain 
behind  them,  and  prepared  for  their  performance,  congrat 
ulating  themselves  that  Mr.  Blinks,  the  name  of  the  mar 
plot,  was  not  on  hand  to  spoil  their  sport.  They  selected 
the  word  catastrophe,  and  the  curtain  went  up. 

A  very  pretty  and  lively  young  lad},  who  had  been 
abroad,  gave  a  very  happy  imitation  of  the  almost  inimita 
ble  Jenny  Vertpre,  in  the  French  vaudeville  of  the  "  Cat 
metamorphosed  to  a  Woman,"  in  that  scene  where  she  be 
trays  her  original  nature.  She  purred,  she  frolicked,  she 
pounced  on  an  imaginary  mouse,  caught  it,  tossed  it  up  in 
the  air,  and  went  through  all  the  manoeuvres  of  a  veritable 
grimalkin.  When  the  curtain  fell,  amidst  roars  of  laughter 
and  applause,  the  first  syllable — cat  —  was  whispered  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  among  the  audience. 

At  this  moment  the  hated  Blinks  arrived  in  the  green 
room. 


180  ACTING    CHARADES. 

"What  are  you  up  to?  Acting  charades  —  eh?  By 
Jove  !  I'm  just  in  time.  You  must  give  me  a  part  —  can't 
get  along  without  me.  What's  the  word  ?  " 

"  No  matter,"  said  the  young  lady  who  had  played  the 
cat,  with  a  wicked  smile  of  intelligence.  "  Prompter,  ring 
the  curtain  up.  All  you've  got  to  do,  Mr.  Blinks,  is  to  walk 
across  the  stage." 

"  But  where's  my  dress  ?  " 

"  What  you  have  on.     Appear  in  your  own  character." 

The  curtain  went  up,  and  Blinks  stalked  across  with  his 
accustomed  air  of  intolerable  stupidity.  Amidst  smothered 
laughter,  the  audience  guessed  the  second  syllable  of  the 
charade  —  ass. 

The  curtain  went  up  for  the  third  time.  A  group  of  In 
dian  chiefs  were  located  in  a  wigwam.  A  young  brave 
entered,  distinguished  by  the  eagle  plume  and  wampum 
belt,  the  bow  and  hatchet,  and  threw  down  at  the  feet  of 
the  eldest  warrior  a  bundle  of  the  scalps  he  had  brought 
back  from  battle.  A  hum  of  approbation  rose  from  the 
assembly.  *  The  curtain  fell.  The  word  trophy  had  been 
thus  indicated.  The  whole  word  was  then  represented  by 
an  appropriate  scene  from  the  close  of  a  popular  tragedy, 
and  the  spectators,  cheering  the  performance,  called  out 
catastrophe  to  the  actors. 

"  Well,  they  made  out  to  guess  it,"  said  Blinks,  when  the 
curtain  had  fallen  for  the  last  time.  "  But  now  it's  all  over, 
you  made  one  confounded  blunder." 

"  What  was  that  ?  "  asked  the  wicked  young  lady. 

"  You  didn't  act  the  second  syllable." 

"No?" 

"  No  !  indeed  ! "  said  Blinks,  with  a  look  of  intense  cun 
ning.  "  You  had  cat  and  trophy  —  but  where  was  the  ass  ?  * 

"  O,  indeed  ! y>  said  the  young  lady. 


ACTING    CHARADES.  181 

(t  You  see,  ladies  and  gentleman,"  said  Blinks,  enjoying 
his  triumph,  "  you  can't  get  along  without  me.  If  I'd  been 
here  in  the  beginning,  you'd  have  had  the  ass." 

"  We  certainly  should,"  said  the  young  lady,  winking  to 
her  companions,  who  could  hardly  suppress  their  laughter. 

"  And  I  move  we  repeat  this  charade  to-morrow  night/ 
Raid  Blinks  —  "  and  mind,  I'm  the  ass." 

«  Of  course." 

"  I'll  get  a  costume  and  disguise  myself." 

"  Disguise  yourself ! "  echoed  his  tormentor  —  "  for  Heav 
en's  sake,  don't  do  that  —  they'd  never  guess  it." 

The  next  night  the  charade  was  ass-ass-in,  and  Blinks 
went  on  for  the  first  two  syllables.  He  was  perfectly  at 
home — "Richard  himself  again!"  and  the  wicked  young 
lady,  in  complimenting  his  performance,  declared  it  was 
*pirfectly  natural" 

16  M 


THE   GEEEN   CHAMBER. 

IN  my  younger  days,  "  ghost  stories "  v^ere  the  most 
popular  narratives  extant,  and  the  lad/  or  g-  ntteman  who 
could  recite  the  most  thrilling  adventui  %  in*  .Wg  a  gen 
uine  spiritual  visitant,  was  sure  to  be  the  lion  <.  T  k  ness  of 
the  evening  party  he  enlivened  (?)  with  the  disrnal  ietails. 
The  elder  auditors  never  seemed  parties  larly  horrilied  or 
terror-stricken,  however  much  gratified  they  were,  but  the 
younger  members  would  drink  in  every  word,  "  supping 
full  of  horrors."  After  listening  to  one  of  these  authentic 
narratives,  we  used  to  be  very  reluctant  to  retire  to  our 
dormitories,  and  never  ventured  to  get  into  bed  till  we  had 
examined  suspicious-looking  closets,  old  wardrobes,  and,  in 
deed,  every  nook  and  corner  that  might  be  supposed  to  har 
bor  a  ghost  or  a  ghoul. 

Fortunately  for  the  rising  generation,  these  tales  have 
gone  out  of  fashion,  and  though  some  attempts  to  revive 
the  taste  have  been  made  —  as  in  the  "  Night  Side  of  Na 
ture  "  —  such  efforts  have  proved  deplorable  failures.  The 
young  people  of  to-day  make  light  of  ghosts.  The  spectres 
in  the  incantation  scene  of  "  Der  Freyschutz  "  are  received 
with  roars  of  laughter,  and  even  the  statue  in  Don  Gio 
vanni  seems  "jolly,"  notwithstanding  the  illusive  music  ot 
Mozart.  We  were  about  to  remark  that  the  age  had  out 
grown  superstition,  but  we  remembered  the  Rochester 
knockings,  and  concluded  to  be  modestly  silent. 

182 


1UE    GREEN    CHAMBER.  183 

One  evening,  many  years  since  —  it  was  a  blustering 
December  evening  —  the  wind  howling  as  it  dashed  the  old 
buttonwood  limbs  in  its  fury  against  the  parlor  windows  of 
the  country  house  where  a  few  of  us  were  assembled  to 
pass  the  winter  holidays,  we  gathered  before  a  roaring  tire 
of  walnut  and  oak,  which  made  every  thing  within  doors  as 
cheery  and  comfortable  as  all  without  was  desolate  and 
dreary.  The  window  shutters  were  left  unfastened,  that 
the  bright  lamplight  and  ruddy  firelight  might  stream  afar 
upon  the  wintry  waste,  and  perhaps  guide  some  benighted 
wayfarer  to  a  hospitable  shelter. 

We  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  group,  as  any  such 
portrait  painting  would  not  be  germane  to  the  matter  more 
immediately  in  hand.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  one  of  the 
youngsters  begged  aunt  Deborah,  the  matron  of  the  man 
sion,  to  tell  us  a  ghost  story,  —  "a  real  ghost  story,  aunt 
Deborah,"  —  for  in  those  days  we  were  terribly  afraid  of 
counterfeits,  and  hated  to  hear  a  narrative  where  the  ghost 
turned  out  in  the  end  to  be  no  ghost  after  all,  but  a  mere 
compound  of  flesh  and  blood  like  ourselves. 

Aunt  Deborah  smiled  at  our  earnestness,  and  tantalized 
our  impatience  by  some  of  those  little  arts  with  which  the 
practised  story-teller  enhances  the  value  and  interest  of  her 
narrative.  She  tapped  her  silver  snuffbox,  opened  it  de 
liberately,  took  a  very  delicate  pinch  of  the  Lundy  Foot, 
shut  the  box,  replaced  it  in  her  pocket,  folded  her  hands 
before  her,  looked  round  a  minute  on  the  expectant  group, 
and  then  began. 

I  shall  despair  of  imparting  to  this  cold  pen-and-ink 
record  of  her  story  the  inimitable  conversational  grace  with 
which  she  embellished  it.  It  made  an  indelible  impression 
on  my  memory,  and  if  I  have  never  before  repeated  it,  it 
was  from  a  lurking  fear  that  —  though  the  old  lady  assured 


184  THE    GREEN    CHAMBER. 

us  it  was  "  not  to  be  found  in  any  book  or  newspaper  "  — 
it  might  have  found  its  way  into  print.  However,  as  twen 
ty  years  have  elapsed,  and  I  have  never  yet  met  with  it  in 
type,  I  will  venture  to  give  the  outlines  of  the  narrative. 

Major  Rupert  Stanley,  a  "bold  dragoon"  in  the  service 
of  his  majesty  George  III.,  found  himself,  one  dark  and 
blustering  night  in  autumn,  riding  towards  London  on  the 
old  York  road.  He  had  supped  with  a  friend  who  lived  at 
a  village  some  distance  off  the  road,  and  he  was  unfamiliar 
with  the  country.  Though  not  raining,  the  air  was  damp, 
and  the  heavy,  surcharged  clouds  threatened  every  moment 
to  pour  down  their  contents.  But  the  major,  though  a 
young  man,  was  an  old  campaigner  ;  and  with  a  warm  cloak 
wrapped  about  him,  and  a  good  horse  under  him,  would 
have  cared  very  little  for  storm  and  darkness,  had  he  felt 
sure  of  a  good  bed  for  himself,  and  comfortable  quarters 
for  his  horse,  when  he  had  ridden  far  enough  for  the 
strength  of  his  faithful  animal.  A  good  horseman  cares  as 
much  for  the  comfort  of  his  steed  as  for  his  own  ease.  To 
add  to  the  discomfort  of  the  evening,  there  was  some  chance 
of  meeting  highwaymen ;  but  Major  Stanley  felt  no  un 
easiness  on  that  score,  as,  just  before  leaving  his  friend's 
house,  he  had  examined  his  holster  pistols,  and  freshly 
primed  them.  A  brush  with  a  highwayman  would  enhance 
the  romance  of  a  night  journey. 

So  he  jogged  along ;  but  mile  after  mile  was  passed,  and 
no  twinkling  light  in  the  distance  gave  notice  of  the  appear 
ance  of  the  wished-for  inn.  The  major's  horse  began  to 
give  unmistakable  evidence  of  distress  —  stumbling  once  or 
twice,  and  recovering  himself  with  difficulty.  At  last,  a 
dim  light  suddenly  appeared  at  a  turn  of  the  road.  The 
horse  pricked  up  his  ears,  and  trotted  forward  with  spirit,  soon 
baiting  beside  a  one-story  cottage-  The  major  was  disap- 


THE    GREEN    CHAMBER.  185 

pointed,  but  he  rode  up  to  the  door  and  rapped  loudly  with 
the  but  of  his  riding  whip.  The  summons  brought  a  sleepy 
cotter  to  the  door. 

"  My  good  friend,"  said  the  major,  u  can  you  tell  me  how 
far  it  is  to  the  next  inn  ?  " 

"  Eh !  it  be  about  zeven  mile,  zur,"  was  the  answer,  in 
the  broad  Yorkshire  dialect  of  the  district. 

"  Seven  miles  ! "  exclaimed  the  major,  in  a  tone  of  deep 
disappointment,  "  and  my  horse  is  already  blown !  My 
good  fellow,  can't  you  put  my  horse  somewhere,  and  give 
me  a  bed  ?  I  will  pay  you  liberally  for  your  trouble.*' 

"  Eh !  goodness  zakes !  "  said  the  rustic.  "  I  be  nought 
but  a  ditcher  !  There  be  noa  plaze  to  put  the  nag  in,  and 
there  be  only  one  room  and  one  bed  in  the  cot." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  cried  the  major,  at  his  wits'  end. 

"  I'll  tell  'ee,  zur,"  said  the  rustic,  scratching  his  head 
violently,  as  if  to  extract  his  ideas  by  the  roots.  "  There 
be  a  voine  large  house  on  the  road,  about  a  moile  vurther 
on.  It's  noa  an  inn,  but  the  colonel  zees  company  vor  the 
vun  o'  the  thing  —  'cause  he  loikes  to  zee  company  about 
'un.  You  must  'a  heard  ov  him  —  Colonel  Rogers  —  a* 
used  to  be  a  soger  once." 

"  Say  no  more,"  cried  the  major.  "  I  have  heard  of  this 
hospitable  gentleman ;  and  his  having  been  in  the  army 
gives  me  a  sure  claim  to  his  attention.  Here's  a  crown  for 
your  information,  my  good  friend.  Come,  Marlborough  !  " 

Touching  his  steed  with  the  spur,  the  major  rode  off,  feel 
ing  an  exhilaration  of  spirits  which  soon  communicated  it 
self  to  the  horse.  A  sharp  trot  of  a  few  minutes  brought 
him  to  a  large  mansion,  which  stood  unfenced,  like  a  huge 
caravansery,  by  the  roadside.  He  made  for  the  front  door 
and,  without  dismounting,  plied  the  large  brass  knocker  till 
a  servant  in  livery  made  his  appearance. 
16* 


186  THE    GREEN    CHAMBER. 

"Is  your  master  up?"  asked  the  major. 

"  I  am  the  occupant  of  this  house,"  said  a  venerable  gen 
tleman,  making  his  appearance  at  the  hall  door. 

"  I  am  a  benighted  traveller,  sir,"  said  the  major,  touch- 
;ng  his  hat,  "  and  come  to  claim  your  well-known  hospitality. 
Can  you  give  me  a  bed  for  the  night  ?  I  am  afraid  my 
four-footed  companion  is  hardly  able  to  carry  me  to  the 
next  inn." 

"  I  cannot  promise  you  a  bed,  sir,"  said  the  host,  "  for  I 
have  but  one  spare  bed  in  the  house." 

"  And  that "  said  the  major. 

"  Happens  to  be  in  a  room  that  does  not  enjoy  a  very 
pleasing  reputation.  *In  short,  sir,  one  room  of  my  house 
is  haunted  ;  and  that  is  the  only  one,  unfortunately,  that  I 
can  place  at  your  disposal  to-night." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  major,  springing  from  his  horse, 
and  tossing  the  bridle  to  the  servant,  "  you  enchant  me  be 
yond  expression  !  A  haunted  chamber !  The  very  thing 
—  and  I,  who  have  never  seen  a  ghost !  What  luck  ! " 

The  host  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"  I  never  knew  a  man,"  he  said,  "  to  pass  a  night  in  that 
chamber  without  regretting  it." 

Major  Stanley  laughed  as  he  took  his  pistols  from  the 
holster  pipes.  "  With  these  friends  of  mine,"  he  said,  "  I 
fear  neither  ghost  nor  demon." 

Colonel  Rogers  showed  his  guest  into  a  comfortable  par 
lor,  where  a  seacoal  fire  was  burning  cheerfully  in  a  grate, 
and  refreshments  most  welcome  to  a  weary  traveller  stood 
upon  a  table. 

"  Mine  host"  was  an  old  campaigner,  and  had  seen  much 
service  during  the  war  of  the  American  revolution,  and  he 
was  full  of  interesting  anecdotes  and  descriptions  of  adven 
tures  But  while  Major  Stanley  was  apparently  listening 


THE    GREEN    CHAMBER.  187 

nttentively  to  the  narrative  of  his  hospitable  entertainer, 
throwing  in  the  appropriate  ejaculations  of  surprise  and 
pleasure  at  the  proper  intervals,  his  whole  attention  was  in 
reality  absorbed  by  a  charming  girl  of  twenty,  the  daughter 
of  the  colonel,  who  graced  the  table  with  her  presence. 
Never,  he  thought,  had  he  seen  so  beautiful,  so  modest,  and 
so  ladylike  a  creature ;  and  she,  in  turn,  seemed  very  fa 
vorably  impressed  with  the  manly  beauty  and  frank  man 
ners  of  their  military  guest. 

At  length  she  retired.  The  colonel,  who  was  a  three- 
bottle  man,  and  had  found  a  listener  to  his  heart,  was  some 
what  inclined  to  prolong  the  session  into  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning,  but  finding  that  his  guest  was  much  fatigued, 
and  even  beginning  to  nod  in  the  midst  of  his  choicest  story, 
he  felt  compelled  to  ask  him  if  he  would  not  like  to  retire. 
Major  Stanley  replied  promptly  in  the  affirmative,  and  the 
old  gentleman,  taking  up  a  silver  candlestick,  ceremoniously 
marshalled  his  guest  to  a  large,  old-fashioned  room,  the 
walls  of  which  being  papered  with  green,  gave  it  its  appel 
lation  of  the  "  Green  Chamber."  A  comfortable  bed  in 
vited  to  repose  ;  a  cheerful  fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth, 
and  every  thing  was  cosy  and  quiet.  The  major  looked 
round  him  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you,  colonel,"  said  he,  "  for 
affording  me  such  comfortable  quarters.  I  shall  sleep  like 
a  top." 

"J  am  afraid  not,"  answered  the  colonel,  shaking  his 
head  gravely.  "  I  never  knew  a  guust  of  mine  to  puss  a 
quiet  night  in  the  Green  Chamber." 

"I  shall  prove  an  exception,"  said  the  major,  smiling. 
"  But  I  must  make  one  remark,"  he  added,  seriously.  "It 
is  ill  sporting  with  the  feelings  of  a  soldier ;  and  should  any 
of  your  servants  attempt  to  play  tricks  upon  me,  they  will 


188  THE    GREEN    CHAMBER. 

have  occasion  to  repent  it."  And  he  laid  his  heavy  pistol 
on  the  lightstand  by  his  bedside. 

"My  servants,  Major  Stanley,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
with  an  air  of  offended  dignity,  "are  too  well  drilled  tc» 
dare  attempt  any  tricks  upon  my  guests.  Good  night, 
major." 

"  Good  night,  colonel." 

The  door  closed.  Major  Stanley  locked  it.  Having 
done  so,  he  took  a  survey  of  the  apartment.  Besides  the 
door  opening  into  the  entry,  there  was  another  leading  to 
some  other  room.  There  was  no  lock  upon  this  second 
door,  but  a  heavy  table,  placed  across,  completely  barri 
caded  it. 

"  I  am  safe,"  thought  the  major,  "  unless  there  is  a 
storming  party  of  ghosts  to  attack  me  in  my  fastness.  I 
think  I  shall  sleep  well." 

He  threw  himself  into  an  arm  chair  before  the  fire,  and 
watching  the  glowing  embers,  amused  himself  with  building 
castles  in  the  air,  and  musing  on  the  attractions  of  the  fair 
Julia,  his  host's  daughter.  He  was  far  enough  from  think 
ing  of  spectral  visitants,  when  a  very  slight  noise  struck  on 
his  ear.  Glancing  in  the  direction  of  the  inner  door,  he 
thought  he  saw  the  heavy  table  glide  backwards  from  its 
place.  Quick  as  thought,  he  caught  up  a  pistol,  and  chal 
lenged  the  intruder.  There  was  no  reply  —  but  the  door 
continued  to  open,  and  the  table  to  slide  back.  At  last 
there  glided  into  the  room  a  tall,  graceful  figure,  robed  in 
white.  At  the  first  glance,  the  blood  curdled  in  the  major's 
veins  ;  at  the  second,  he  recognized  the  daughter  of  his 
host.  Her  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  she  advanced  with  an 
assured  step,  but  it  was  very  evident  she  was  asleep.  Here 
was  the  mystery  of  the  Green  Chamber  solved  at  once.  The 
young  girl  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  seated  herself  in  the 


THE    GREEN    CHAMBEB.  189 

arm  chair  from  which  the  soldier  had  just  risen.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  vacate  the  room,  and  go  directly  and  alarm 
the  colonel.  But,  in  the  first  place,  he  knew  not  what  apart 
ment  his  host  occupied,  and  in  the  second,  curiosity  prompted 
him  to  watch  the  denouement  of  this  singular  scene.  Julia 
raised  her  left  hand,  and  gazing  on  a  beautiful  ring  that 
adorned  one  of  her  white  and  taper  fingers,  pressed  it 
repeatedly  to  her  lips.  She  then  sank  into  an  attitude  of 
repose,  her  arms  drooping  listlessly  by  her  sides. 

The  major  approached  her,  and  stole  the  ring  from  her 
finger.  His  action  disturbed,  but  did  not  awaken  her.  She 
seemed  to  miss  the  ring,  however,  and,  after  groping  hope 
lessly  for  it,  rose  and  glided  through  the  doorway  as  silently 
as  she  had  entered.  She  had  no  sooner  retired  than  the 
major  replaced  the  table,  and  drawing  a  heavy  clothes  press 
against  it,  effectually  guarded  himself  against  a  second  in 
trusion. 

This  done,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  slept 
soundly  till  a  late  hour  of  the  morning.  "When  he  awoke, 
he  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  ran  to  the  window.  Every  trace 
of  the  storm  had  passed  away,  and  an  unclouded  sun  was 
shining  on  the  radiant  landscape.  After  performing  the 
duties  of  his  toilet,  he  was  summoned  to  breakfast,  where 
he  met  the  colonel  and  his  daughter. 

"  "Well,  major,  and  how  did  you  pass  the  night  ?  "  asked 
the  colonel,  anxiously. 

"  Famously,"  replied  Stanley.  "  I  slept  like  a  top,  as  I 
told  you  I  should." 

"  Then,  thank  Heaven,  the  spell  is  broken  at  last,"  said 
the  colonel,  "  and  the  White  Phantom  has  ceased  to  haunt 
the  Green  Chamber." 

"By  no  means,"  said  the  major,  smiling  ;  "the  White 
Phantom  paid  me  a  visit  last  night,  and  left  me  a  token 
of  the  honor." 


190  THE    GREEN    CHAMBER. 

"A  token!"  exclaimed  the  father  and  daughter  in  a 
breath. 

"  Yes,  my  friends,  and  here  it  is."  And  the  major  hand 
ed  the  ring  to  the  old  gentleman. 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  this,  Julia  ? "  exclaimed  the 
colonel.  "  This  ring  I  gave  you  last  week  !  " 

Julia  uttered  a  faint  cry,  and  turned  deadly  pale. 

"The  mystery  is  easily  explained,"  said  the  major. 
"  The  young  lady  is  a  sleep-walker.  She  came  into  my 
room  before  I  had  retired,  utterly  unconscious  of  her  ac 
tions.  I  took  the  ring  from  her  hand,  that  I  might  be  able 
to  convince  you  and  her  of  the  reality  of  what  I  had  wit 
nessed." 

The  major's  business  was  not  pressing,  and  he  leadily 
yielded  to  the  colonel's  urgent  request  to  pass  a  few  days 
with  him.  Their  mutual  liking  increased  upon  better  ac 
quaintance,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  White  Phantom's  ring, 
inscribed  with  the  names  of  Rupert  Stanley  and  Julia 
Rogers,  served  as  the  sacred  symbol  of  their  union  for 


HE  WASN'T   A  HORSE   JOCKEY. 

IT  was  at  the  close  ol'  a  fine,  autumnal  afternoon,  that  a 
simple-looking  traveller,  attired  in  a  homespun  suit  of  gray, 
and  wearing  a  broad-brimmed,  Quaker-looking  hat,  drove 
up  to  the  door  of  the  Spread  Eagle  Tavern,  in  the  town  of 

B ,  State  of  Maine,  kept  by  Major  E.  Spike,  and 

ordered  refreshments  for  himself  and  horse.  There  was 
nothing  particular  about  the  traveller,  except  his  air  of 
simplicity ;  but  his  horse  was  a  character.  The  animal 
was  at  least  thirty  years  of  age,  and  was  as  gaunt  as  Ros- 
inante,  and  would  have  been  a  dear  bargain  at  fifteen 
dollars.  The  traveller  acknowledged  that  he  had  been 
taken  in  somewhat  when  he  bought  the  animal,  for  he 
"  wasn't  a  horse  jockey,"  and  "  did'nt  know  much  about 
critters  ! "  However,  he  added,  "  that  if  he  had  good  luck 
in  his  trip  down  east,  [he  was  agent  for  a  Hartford  Life 
Assurance  Company,]  he  meant  to  pick  up  something 
handsome  in  the  way  of  horse  flesh  to  take  home  with  him." 
After  communicating  his  name  and  business,  and  sundry 
other  particulars,  with  a  frankness  which,  while  it  satisfied 
the  curiosity,  excited  the  contempt  of  Major  Spike,  the 
stranger,  whom  we  shall  call  Zebulon  Smith,  departed. 

He  had  a  business  call  to  make  on  the  widow  Stebbins, 
who  lived  about  three  miles  olf,  in  a  very  old,  unfinished, 
shingled  house,  of  immense  extent,  in  the  centre  of  an 

191 


192  HE  WASN'T  A  HORSE  JOCKEY. 

unfenced  lot,  the  chief  products  of  which  were  rocks, 
brambles,  and  barberry  bushes. 

"  Keep  much  stock,  Miss  Stebbins  ?  "  said  he,  as,  having 
transacted  his  business,  he  prepared  to  resume  his  journey. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  she ;  "  Tin  a  lone  woman,  and  hain't 
got  no  help ;  so  I  keep  only  a  cow  and  that  'ere  colt.  I 
wish  I  could  sell  him,  for  I  ain't  got  nobody  to  break  him 
in  properly." 

Zebulon  looked  at  the  colt.  He  was  a  limpsey,  long- 
legged,  shaggy  animal,  with  a  ewe-neck,  drooping  head, 
and  little,  undecided  tail,  completely  knotted  up  with  burs ; 
but  then  he  was  only  five  years  old. 

"  Heow'll  yeou  trade,  Miss  Stebbins?  "  asked  the  agent. 
"  I've  a  mind  to  take  the  critter,  if  you'll  trade  even,  though 
I  don't  know  the  pints  of  a  horse.  I  ain't  a  horse  jockey. 
Heowever,  you're  a  lone  woman,  and  I  want  to  oblige  you. 
You  hain't  got  nobody  to  break  the  colt  for  you,  and  here's 
my  hoss  would  suit  you  to  a  T.  He's  a  nice  ft/mily  hoss." 

"  Heow  old  is  he  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Stebbins. 

"  He's  risin*  six  years,"  said  Zebulon,  and  no  he  was. 

"  He  looks  pretty  well  along,"  said  the  w"klow.  "  How 
much  boot  will  you  give  me  ? " 

"  Boot ! "  exclaimed  Zebulon.  "  0,  if  you  talk  about 
boot,  I'm  off.  I  ain't  no  hors£  jockey,  hut  I  know  I'm 
flingin'  my  hoss  —  good  old  hoss  —  away  by  tradin'  even. 
But  generosity  and  consideration  for  widders  —  specially 
good-lookin'  ones  —  was  allers  a  failin'  in  my  family." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  had  orter,"  said  the  widow,  thought 
fully  ;  "  if  Mr.  Stebbins  was  alive,  you  wouldn't  get  the 
colt  so  cheap,  for  he  sot  every  thing  by  him.  He's  sot  his 
pedigree  down  in  the  births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  in  our 
family  Bible.  He  allers  said,  poor  mai^  he  was  goin'  to 
make  a  great  hoss." 


HE  WASN'T  A  HORSE  JOCKEY.  193 

"  That  'ere  was  an  optical  delusion,"  said  the  agent ;  "  he 
warn't  never  a  goin'  to  make  a  great  hoss,  and  he  won't 
never  be  a  great  hoss.  I  know  so  much,  if  I  ain't  a  horse 
jockey.  Come,  now,  what  say  ?  Shall  I  ungear,  and  leave 
my  critter,  or  put  on  the  string  and  be  a  travellin'  ?  " 

"  You  may  have  the  colt,"  said  the  widow,  bursting  into 
tears,  and  retiring,  unable  to  witness  the  consummation  of 
the  sacrifice. 

"  Come,  young  Burtail,"  said  Zebulon,  addressing  the 
colt.  "  It's  time  you  was  sot  to  work.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  ever  had  a  collar  over  your  darned  ewe-neck 
or  not.  I  don't  see  how  any  thing  short  of  a  crooked-neck 
squash  could  fit  it ;  but  I'll  try  mine  on."  And  with  these 
words  he  harnessed  up  the  colt,  and  leaving  his  old  "  hoss  " 
with  the  widow,  drove  on  his  way  rejoicing. 

About  fifteen  miles  farther  east,  he  stopped  and  put  up 
at  a  tavern,  where  he  made  an  arrangement  to  leave  the 
colt  for  a  week,  hiring  the  landlord's  horse  to  pursue  his 
journey.  He  gave  directions  to  have  the  colt  fed  high  in 
the  interim,  to  have  his  tail  nicked  and  put  in  pulleys,  his 
head  checked  up,  and  his  coat  carefully  shaved  according 
to  the  new  practice.  A  very  astute  hostler  promised  that 
every  thing  should  be  done  according  to  his  directions,  and 
to  his  perfect  satisfaction. 

Accordingly,  in  a  week's  time,  when  Zebulon  came  back, 
he  hardly  knew  his  bargain.  The  colt  was  fat  as  a  hog. 
His  sides  shone  like  silver ;  his  mane  was  neatly  trimmed  ; 
his  tail  was  crimped,  and  rose  and  fell  hi  a  graceful  curve  ; 
and  he  carried  his  head  as  proudly  as  an  Arabian. 

"With  the  metamorphosed  animal  in  the  fills,  the  agent 

drove  back  to  the  Spread  Eagle,  arid  put  up  for  the  night 

In  the  morning,  he  ordered  his  team,  and  paid  his  bill. 

Major   Sjike,  who  was  great  on  horses,  standing  at  the 

17 


194  HE  WASN'T  A  HORSE  JOCKEY. 

front  door,  was  struck  with  the  appearance  of  his  guest's 
"  cattle." 

"  Been  buying  a  new  hoss  ?  "  said  the  major. 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  I'd  try  one,  though  I  ain't  a  horse 
jockey,"  answered  the  agent,  making  an  excuse  to  examine 
the  buckles  of  his  harness. 

"  Don't  want  to  sell  him,  do  you  ?  "  said  the  major. 

"  Why,  no,  major,  I  reckon  not.  I  expect  he'll  suit  me 
fust  rate.  I'm  doin'  pooty  well,  now,  and  can  afford  to 
hev'  somethin'  nice.  I  calklate  to  keep  him." 

"  I  don't  like  his  color,"  said  the  major. 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  Zebulon,  getting  into  his  wagon. 
"  Good  mornin',  major." 

"  Hold  on,"  said  the  major.  "  I've  got  a  hoss  I  want  to 
show  you.  Jake,  bring  out  the  bay,  and  let  Mr.  Smith 
have  a  squint  at  him." 

The  hostler  brought  out  a  square-built,  chunky,  bay 
horse,  in  fine  condition,  and  looking  like  a  capital  roadster. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  hoss,  Mr.  Smith  ?  "  asked 
the  major,  triumphantly. 

"  Pretty  fair  hoss,"  said  the  agent.  "  But  I  tell  you  I'm 
no  judge  of  horses  ;  I  ain't  a  horse  jockey." 

"  Well,  now,  I  tell  you  what,"  said  the  major ;  "  I'm  a 
darned  fool  for  doin'  of  it ;  but  when  I  take  a  fancy,  I 
don't  mind  expense  to  gratify  it.  I'm  willing  to  swap 
bosses  even  with  you." 

"  Even  ! "  screamed  the  agent.  "  Now,  major,  that's  a 
good  one.  I  ain't  a  horse  jockey.  I  don't  know  the  value 
of  the  critters  ;  but  I  ain't  altogether  a  reg'lar,  soft-headed, 
know-nothin'  fool ;  and  if  I  had  a  mind  to  part  with  this 
'ere  splendiferous  animal,  I  should  want  boot." 

*  You're  a  hard  one,"  said  the  major ;  "  but  as  fur  as 
t  wenty  dollars " 


HE  WASN'T  A  HORSE  JOCKEY.  195 

"  Twenty  dollars !  get  out,"  said  the  agent,  indignantly. 
u  G'lang,  Bob !  "  and  he  actually  started  his  team. 

"  Hold  on ! "  roared  the  major.     "  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Say  forty,  and  I'll  do  it  —  no,  I  won't,"  said  the  agent, 

"  You  said  you  would.  It's  a  bargain.  You  said  forty, 
did'nt  he,  Jake  ?  " 

The  hostler  could  not  deny  it. 

"  Well,  you're  the  hardest  customer  /  ever  see ! "  mut 
tered  the  agent,  as  he  got  out  of  the  wagon.  "  This  is  the 
wust  mornin's  work  I  ever  did.  Let  me  have  your  old 
bay,  and  be  a  travellin'.  You'd  hev*  a  fellur's  eye  teeth 
afore  he  knowed  it,  ef  you  wanted  'em." 

The  major  chuckled  as  he  counted  out  forty  dollars  and 
handed  them  to  the  agent.  He  eagerly  assisted  the  hostler 
to  ungear  the  coveted  horse ;  and  when  the  bay  was  har 
nessed  up,  did  not  urge  the  agent  to  stop,  and  the  latter 
drove  off,  looking  as  melancholy  as  if  he  had  buried  all  his 
relations. 

The  major  drove  out  with  his  new  purchase  that  very 
day  ;  but  his  performance  did  not  equal  his  expectations. 
However,  as  an  experienced  horse  jockey,  he  knew  that 
great  allowances  are  to  be  made  for  a  green  horse,  and  he 
promised  to  train  him  up  to  "  2.50,"  at  the  least.  But 
before  one  week  had  passed  over  his  head,  his  expectations 
were  all  dashed.  There  was  no  "  go  "  in  the  animal.  His 
nose  dropped  to  the  ground,  his  tail  slunk,  and  his  toes  dug 
into  the  gravel  as  if  he  was  boring  for  water.  The  major 
had  to  confess  that  he  had  been  completely  taken  in. 

"  That  infernal  rascal !  "  said  he ;  "  I  wish  I  could  catch 
him  here  again." 

"  You  ain't  very  likely  to,"  remarked  Jake,  the  hostler, 
dryly. 

"  Why  so  ?  Do  you  know  any  thirg  about  him?  Did 
you  ever  see  him  before  ?  " 


196  HE  WASN'T  A  HORSE  JOCKEY. 

"  Ever  see  him  !  why,  he  came  from  the  same  place  that 
I  did." 

"Where's  that?" 

"  Meredith  Bridge." 

"  Meredith  Bridge ! "  exclaimed  the  landlord.  "  And  he 
§aid  he  wasn't  a  horse  jockey.  O,  what  an  ass  I  was." 

"  Very  true,"  said  the  hostler. 

"  Any  how,  you  never  saw  the  horse  before  ?  "  said  the 
landlord. 

"  Never  see  the  horse  before !  "  exclaimed  Jake.  "  Why, 
Lord  bless  you,  I  know'd  him  soonsever  I  sot  eyes  on  him. 
He's  Miss  Stebbins's  colt." 

"  And  you  never  told  me  of  this,  you  scoundrel !  " 

"  I  want  a  goin'  to  spile  a  trade,"  said  the  hostler.  "  And 
then  I've  heard  you  say  so  often  that  nobody  could  take 
you  in  on  a  hoss,  that  I  thought  it  warnt  no  use." 

"  The  cussed  swindler !  "  said  the  major.  "  After  havin* 
shaved  every  body  he  came  across,  he  went  and  shaved  a 
hoss,  and  put  him  off  on  me  —  me,  the  greatest  hossman  in 
the  State  of  Maine.  The  next  chap  from  Meredith  Bridge 
that  comes  into  these  diggins,  I'll  get  a  fight  out  of  and 
lick  him,  jest  as  sure  as  my  name's  Elnathan  Spike ! " 


FUNERAL  SHADOWS. 

A  MYSTERY 

THE  wind  was  howling  and  moaning  through  the  almost 
deserted  streets  of  Boston,  on  a  chilly  evening  of  Septem 
ber,  as  a  young  man  of  medium  height  and  slight  figure 
drew  a  faded  and  threadbare  black  cloak  around  him,  pulled 
his  fur  cap  down  on  his  forehead  to  shelter  his  eyes  from  the 
cutting  wind,  and  strode  down  Washington  Street  in  a 
northerly  direction,  with  a  rapid  and  impatient  step.  Ar 
rived  at  the  door  of  a  house  of  moderate  pretensions,  he 
entered  hastily.  We  shall  follow  him  to  the  third  story, 
enter  with  him  a  large  and  wholly  dark  apartment,  and 
watch  him  while  he  kindles  a  fire  on  the  ample  hearth  stone. 
A  pale-blue  flame  flickers  hesitatingly  among  the  wood,  and 
conjures  up  from  the  walls  around  strange  shapes  and  coun 
tenances  bathed  in  the  indistinct  and  lurid  light.  And  now 
the  flame  grows  brighter,  and  the  heavy  furniture  in  the 
apartment  flings  strange  shadows,  horizontal,  diagonal,  and 
perpendicular ;  and  the  pictures  on  the  wall  (for  we  are  in 
a  painter's  studio)  looked  quite  as  vague  and  vapory  as  the 
projected  shadows.  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  some  of 
these  faces  endowed  wnh  vitality,  and  so  wild  and  startling 
are  many  of  them  thai  the  wavering  shadows  seem  to  belong 
to  them,  and  to  be  their  strangely-animated  limbs. 

The  painter  lit  a  lamp,  and  then  a  huge  meerschaum  filled 
17*  x  197 


198  FUNERAL    SIIADOAVS. 

with  fragrant  to^aceo,  his  nightly  solace  and  daily  inspi 
ration.  While  the  smoke  wreaths  slowly  ascended  to  the 
ceiling,  he  wove  his  Gothic  fancies,  arid  saw,  in  the  blue 
clouds  that  hovered  over  him,  embryo  designs  and  groups 
that  he  afterwards  transferred  to  canvas. 

Malise  Grey  was  an  artist  of  great  but  peculiar  talent  — • 
a  fine  draughtsman,  an  admirable  colorist,  but  his  imagi 
nation  was  of  a  Gothic  cast,  and  he  delighted  in  strange,  fan 
tastical,  and  supernatural  subjects.  He  had  travelled  much 
in  Germany,  and  his  mind  was  imbued  with  the  super 
stitions  and  legends  of  that  storied  land.  These  he  loved 
to  illustrate  with  his  pencil,  and  his  walls  were  covered 
with  German  scenes  and  subjects,  from  the  "  Witches'  Sab 
bath"  to  the  "Castled  Crag  of  Drachenfels."  Portraits 
he  painted  from  necessity,  not  choice ;  but  he  was  too  true 
an  artist  for  the  million.  The  sleek  hypocrite  wore  not  on 
his  canvas  the  deceptive  look  of  holiness  that  bore  him  on 
through  life  to  wealth  and  honor,  but  the  crafty,  sensual 
smile,  the  libertine  eye,  and  lips  that  indicated  the  secret 
phases  of  his  character.  Imbecile  beauty  saw  her  index 
in  the  painted  mirror.  Folly  stood  convicted  by  the  pencil. 
It  was  frequently  remarked,  that  you  might  learn  more  of 
a  man  from  a  glance  at  his  portrait  than  from  months'  com 
panionship  with  the  original.  Malise  Grey  was  not  popu 
lar  —  but  he  lived  for  his  art,  and  bread  and  water  satisfied 
his  earthly  cravings. 

The  meerschaum  fairly  smoked  out,  the  artist  drew  from 
a  dusty  pile  of  canvases  one  on  which  he  had  painted  a 
family  group.  It  was  a  fancy  piece.  An  old  man  lay  upon 
his  death  bed,  over  which  bent  a  weeping  wife  and  a  sor 
rowing  and  lovely  child.  The  face  of  the  latter  was  one  of 
unearthly  beauty,  and  Raphael  or  Titian  might  not  have 
disdained  the  painting  of  those  glistening  blue  eyes,  and  the 


FUNERAL    SHADOWS.  199 

falling  sunbeams  of  that  golden  hair.  The  painter  had 
poured  out  his  soul  upon  that  angelic  countenance  and  per 
fect  figure. 

"  It  is  my  ideal,"  said  the  artist,  "  and,  by  the  mystic 
whisper  of  the  heart,  by  the  bright  teaching  of  the  star  that 
rules  my  destiny,  by  the  forbidden  lore  of  which  I  have 
drank  deeply,  I  know  that  the  ideal  of  each  mind  is  the 
reflex  of  the  actual,  and  with  the  true  artist  fancy  is 
existence ! " 

The  meerschaum  was  again  filled,  and  Malise  Grey  cdn- 
templated  his  picture.  The  smoke  wreaths  rolled  around 
it,  but  it  shone  out  luminous  and  starlike.  Its  harmony 
was  like  the  silent  melody  of  the  spheres,  and  its  musical 
radiance  dispelled  the  remembrance  of  all  his  sufferings,  and 
lulled  him  like  the  melody  of  falling  waters.  "When,  at 
length,  he  drew  his  poor  couch  from  its  recess,  and  threw 
himself  upon  it,  he  left  the  picture  full  in  sight,  and  con 
tinued  to  watch  it  by  the  fading  firelight  till  its  last  lumi 
nous  point  disappeared  with  the  blaze,  and  slumber  closed 
his  lids  to  make  its  memory  brighter. 

The  next  morning  was  clear  and  sparkling  ;  the  first  rays 
of  the  sun  were  like  fiery  rubies  on  the  walls  of  the  studio. 

The  painter  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  The  dream ! "  he  cried. 
"  My  heart  did  not  deceive  me.  The  spirits  are  at  work  for 
its  accomplishment." 

He  went  forth  to  take  his  daily  walk.  There  were  times 
when  an  appalling  dread  of  insanity  smote  his  heart,  and 
once  the  expression  of  a  friend  at  the  recital  of  one  of  his 
wildest  fantasies  led  him  into  a  train  of  reflection  and  self- 
examination  which  shook  his  very  soul.  For  a  time  he 
forsook  his  studio,  and  went  abroad  into  the  gay  world  and 
formed  fashionable  acquaintances  ;  but  he  went  back  to  his 
lonely  room  and  his  hermit  life  at  the  expiration  of  a  few 


200  FUNERAL    SHADOWS. 

weekg,  convinced  that  the  madness  of  art  was  preferable 
to  the  madness  of  society.  And  it  was  a  painful  thing  for 
him  to  go  abroad,  for  no  one  sympathized  with  him.  His 
mind  dwelt  either  on  the  shadowy  past,  or  the  yet  more 
shadowy  future.  He  held  no  communion  with  the  present. 
So,  on  the  occasion  we  have  referred  to,  after  a  hurried 
walk,  he  returned  to  his  room,  the  door  of  which  he  had  left 
unlocked.  A  veiled  lady  sat  before  his  easel.  She  rose 
upon  his  entrance.  His  heart  beat  high  with  anticipations. 
The  lady  thus  addressed  him  :  — 

"  Malise  Grey,  we  have  known  each  other  in  the  land  of 
dreams  ! "  and  removing  her  veil,  she  pointed  with  her  left 
hand  to  the  picture,  while  she  extended  her  right  to  the 
painter.  The  ideal  and  the  actual  stood  before  him.  A 
strange  light  gleamed  upon  the  painter's  mind,  and  he  spoke 
as  if  prompted  by  some  unseen  power. 

"  Esther  Vaughan,  by  this  token  do  I  know  you."  He 
took  her  hand,  and  added,  "  By  the  mystic  spell  that  drew 
TZS  to  each  other,  I  conjure  you  here  to  plight  your  troth  to 
me  for  weal  and  woe." 

"  My  father  died  shortly  after  that  picture  was  painted," 
replied  the  maiden,  "  and  my  mother —  my  poor  mother — 
soon  followed  him.  The  spirit  summons  commanded  me 
to  seek  you  out.  I  have  obeyed." 

A  strange  marriage  was  solemnized  in  the  Old  King's 
Chapel.  The  bride  wore  no  rose  or  orange  flower  in  her 
braided  hair,  and  a  long,  black  veil  enveloped  her  from 
head  to  foot.  In  fact,  her  entire  raiment,  and  that  of  the 
bridegroom,  was  of  the  same  ghastly  hue ;  and  the  cer 
emony  was  performed  beneath  the  light  of  torches,  which 
threw  their  funeral  glare  upon  the  mortuary  tablets  and 
reliefs  that  decorate  the  interior  of  the  sacred  edifice.  As 


FUNERAL    SHADOWS.  201 

IL&  newly-married  pair  were  about  to  step  into  the  carriage 
at  the  door,  a  thin  figure  in  black  approached  the  bride, 
and  laid  its  hand  upon  her  arm.  The  countenance  was  not 
visible.  The  bride  uttered  a  sharp  cry  of  pain  and  terror, 
and  the  figure  instantly  stepped  back. 

"  Hold  up  your  torch,  there,  sexton,"  cried  the  painter  ; 
'  some  one  has  insulted  the  bride." 

A  tall  figure  was  seen  stealing  away  through  the  tomb 
stones  in  the  churchyard,  to  which  he  had  probably  gained 
access  through  a  breach  in  the  wall,  at  that  time  wholly 
ruinous. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  describe  the  happiness  of  Mal- 
ise  Grey  and  his  strangely-found  and  strangely-wedded 
bride.  Enough  to  say,  it  was  like  all  the  circumstances 
that  composed  his  existence  —  dream-like  and  strange.  So 
vivid  were  his  dreams  and  reveries,  that  he  often  wondered 
whether  they  were  not  the  actual,  and  his  marriage  life  the 
imaginary,  part  of  his  existence.  He  could  not  give  him 
self  up  to  enjoyment ;  and  sometimes,  when  his  young  wife 
would  have  lavished  on  him  the  wealth  of  her  innocent 
caresses,  he  turned  from  her  moodily,  and  muttered, "  What 
have  I  to  do  with  a  spirit  bride  ?  Wlfcn  the  sun  rises, 
these  shadows  will  disperse." 

Esther  Grey  had  often  solicited  her  husband  to  paint  her 
portrait,  since  the  likeness  in  the  family  picture  showed 
her  under  the  influence  of  grief.  She  wished  a  record  of 
her  happiness.  Grey  set  about  complying  with  her  re 
quest.  He  assumed  the  task  in  a  moment  of  inspired  and 
fresh  feeling,  and  went  to  work  with  heart  and  soul.  His 
»V.eioL.  was  instantaneously  executed,  and  then 

His  touches  they  flew  like  leares  in  a  storm  ; 

And  the  pure  pearly  white,  and  the  carnation  warm. 


202  FUNERAL    SHADOWS. 

Suddenly  he  threw  down  his  pencil,  and  paced  the  apart 
ment  to  and  fro  with  rapid  strides.  "  The  doomed  look  ! " 
he  muttered,  "  the  doomed  look  !  Esther,  I  can  paint  no 
more  to-day." 

But  the  morrow  found  him  early  at  his  task.  A  few 
hours'  work  completed  a  portrait  which,  for  fidelity  of  like 
ness,  harmony  of  accessories,  and  felicity  of  coloring,  was 
almost  unsurpassable.  Yet  the  painter  refused  to  have  it 
framed,  and  concealed  it  from  view  behind  a  curtain  in  his 
studio. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards,  a  stranger  called  upon  the 
artist.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  attired  in  a  threadbare 
suit  of  black  bombazine:  He  was  frightfully  pale.  His 
jaws  were  prominent,  and  the  sallow,  shrunken  skin  clung 
close  to  every  muscle  of  his  countenance.  His  dark, 
sunken,  and  glossy  eyes  had  an  unearthly  expression,  and 
his  air  was  melancholy  in  the  extreme.  A  nameless  chill 
came  over  the  painter  as  he  surveyed  the  aspect  of  his 
unknown  visitor  The  stranger  coldly  surveyed  the  pro 
ductions  of  the  artist,  and  honored  them  with  a  few  brief 
comments.  At  length  he  paused  before  the  veiled  picture, 
and  said,  "  This  picture  of  your  wife  ^belongs  to  me." 

The  painter  was  so  strong  a  believer  in  the  supernatural, 
had  been  subject  to  so  many  inexplicable  influences,  that 
he  felt  no  surprise  at  the  stranger's  naming  the  subject  of 
the  veiled  picture  without  uncovering  it.  But  he  repeated, 
sternly,  "  Belongs  to  you  ?  What  mean  you  by  that  re 
mark?" 

"I  mean  it  is,  or  will  be  mine,  by  purchase." 

«  Not  so." 

"  Then  you  will  not  sell  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  part  with  it  at  any  price." 

The  stranger  smiled,  but  not  sneeringly  or  sarcastically 


FUNERAL    SHADOWS.  203 

The  expression  of  his  countenance  was  mournful  in  the 
extreme,  and  likewise  unpleasant,  because  the  parting  of 
his  shrivelled  lips  displayed  his  large,  yellow  teeth  in  un 
pleasant  relief.  He  opened  the  door,  but  paused  upon  the 
threshold. 

"  You  will  not  part  with  it  ?  " 

"  Once  more,  no  ! "  replied  the  painter. 

"  No  matter ;  the  original  will  soon  be  mine." 

The  door  closed  rapidly  behind  his  noiseless  steps.  A 
vague  terror  shot  through  the  soul  of  the  artist 

"When  Esther  Vaughan  came  to  the  dwelling  of  the 
painter,  she  was  radiant  with  a  health  which  had  triumphed 
over  sorrow  and  long  watching,  but  the  seeds  of  disease  now 
fastened  upon  her  frame,  and  she  sunk  under  its  influence, 
growing  daily  feebler.  The  almost  distracted  husband 
employed  the  best  physicians  in  the  city,  and  under  their 
efforts  Esther,  for  a  while,  seemed  to  revive.  One  day,  in 
solemn  conclave,  they  decided  that  the  patient  would  live, 
and  announced  the  intelligence  to  the  poor  painter,  as  he 
sat  in  his  lonely  studio,  with  much  pomposity  and  empha 
sis.  At  the  time  of  this  announcement,  the  painter  was 
standing  opposite  the  open  door  through  which  the  physi 
cians  had  just  entered.  At  the  moment  when  a  smile  of 
gratified  love  was  lighting  up  his  intelligent  countenance, 
his  eyes,  looking  beyond  the  grouj  of  visitors,  caught  in 
the  corridor  those  of  the  strange  bidder  for  the  veiled  pic 
ture.  The  unknown  shook  his  head  slowly  and  mournfully, 
then  turned  and  retired. 

"  Stop  him,  gentlemen,"  cried  the  painter,  bursting 
through  the  group  of  leeches  ;  "  he  is  a  deadly  enemy  !  " 

The  physicians  looked  at  each  other,  smiled  darkly,  and 
shook  their  heads. 

"  Poor  Grey  1 "  said  an  old  doctor. 


204  FUNERAL    SHADOWS. 

"  Mad  ?  "  asked  the  youngest  of  the  group. 

"  The  cell,  the  chain,  and  scourge  would  be  a  wholesome 
prescription,"  said  the  first  speaker. 

Such  were  the  tender  mercies  of  science  to  madness  in 
the  eighteenth  century. 

It  was  a  hushed  midsummer  night.  The  hum  of  busy 
footsteps  had  long  since  died  away,  and  the  twinkling  lights 
had  faded,  one  by  one,  from  the  huge  bulk  of  the  metrop 
olis.  To  the  lonely  night  watcher,  there  was  enough  of 
light  in  the  mild  effulgence  of  the  moon  to  distinguish 
whether  the  pale  invalid  woke  or  slumbered  ;  whether  the 
repose  of  the  dead  was  inviolate,  or  invaded  by  noisome 
things  that  move  abroad  only  in  darkness.  And  midway 
between  life  and  death,  so  motionless  that  you  would  say 
she  belonged  to  the  dark  realm  of  the  latter,  so  lovely 
that  the  former  still  seemed  to  claim  her  own,  lay  the 
eartL-born  love  of  the  painter,  with  her  ethereal  es 
sence  yet  hovering  near  the  beloved  of  her  soul.  The 
painter  saD  by  the  bedside,  with  her  thin,  pale  hand  clasped 
in  his.  He  had  listened  to  her  last  accents  ;  he  had  heard 
her  call  him,  in  the  fervor  of  her  affection,  "  her  beautiful, 
her  own ; "  and  he  knew  that,  ere  the  unseen  clock  had  re 
corded  the  death  of  another  hour,  the  feeble  pulse  that  flut 
tered  beneath  his  fingers  would  have  ceased  to  beat.  Yet, 
with  all  this,  his  eyes  were  tearless,  and  his  heart  less  heavy 
than  in  those  dark  dreams  which  had  foreshadowed  this 
event.  In  weal  or  woe,  his  prophetic  dreams  seemed  even 
more  impressive  than  the  realities  which  followed  them. 

It  appeared  as  if  there  were  a  magnetic  influence  in  the 
touch  of  the  dying  hand ;  that  the  soul  of  Esther,  bathed  in 
the  dawning  light  of  the  better  world,  had  communicated  a 
portion  of  its  brightness  to  his  own.  So  the  hours  wore 


FUNERAL    SHADOWS.  205 

on ;  the  feeble  pulse  yet  beat,  but  fainter  and  fainter  At 
last,  through  the  open  window  which  commanded  a  view 
of  the  east,  the  brightening  streaks  of  dawn  appeared ;  in 
the  leaves  of  a  solitary  tree,  that  stood  amid  a  wilderness 
of  brick  hard  by,  was  heard  the  faint,  tremulous  twitter  of 
a  bird  waiting  but  a  ruddier  ray  to  launch  forth  upon  his 
dewy  pinions.  A  smile,  like  a  ray  of  light,  dawned  upon  the 
countenance  of  Esther.  She  pointed  to  a  shadowy  alcove 
in  the  chamber,  and  the  painter's  eye,  following  the  indica 
tion,  detected  the  figure  of  his  mysterious  ami  prophetic 
visitor.  But  the  countenance  of  the  unknown  was  milder, 
softer;  a  veil  of  brightness  had  fallen  upon  the  more  repul-. 
sive  lineaments,  and  when  the  broad  daylight  beamed  into 
the  apartment,  his  image  melted  into  the  ray,  like  a  rain 
drop  into  a  sunny  sea.  A  thrill  ran  through  the  painter's 
frame ;  he  gazed  upon  the  face  of  Esther ;  it  was  that  of 
death. 

An  unfinished  painting  rests  upon  an  easel;  it  is  a 
glimpse  of  paradise.  In  the  centre  is  a  focus  of  almost  in 
tolerable  splendor,  the  luminous  veil  of  the  Inconceivable 
and  Infinite ;  while  towards  it,  as  if  drawn  by  a  vortex  of 
glory,  yet  held  in  suspense  when  too  near,  hovers  a  cloud 
of  radiant  forms  and  faces,  their  souls,  pure  and  beatified, 
beaming  from  their  countenances,  all  full  of  adoration,  in 
telligence,  and  bliss.  The  painter  sat  before  it,  giving  the 
last  touches  with  a  feeble  yet  graceful  hand.  A  light 
seemed  to  stream  upon  him  from  the  picture,  and  lit  up  his 
pale,  inspired  countenance. 

The  door  opened,  yet  the  painter  turned  not  from  his 
task  ;  he  heard  no  footstep,  yet  he  knew  that  the  messen 
ger  —  no  longer  feared,  but  hoped  for  —  was  standing  at  his 
side. 


206  FUNERAL    SHADOWS. 

"  One  touch  more,"  he  said,  softly.  "  Thus  'tis  done,  and 
bravely  done ! " 

He  turned  —  the  mysterious  messenger  was  truly  there. 
But  as  the  painter  gazed,  the  herald's  form  was  trans 
figured  ;  his  poor  garments  had  given  place  to  shining 
raiments ;  his  countenance  beamed  glory  and  goodness ; 
effulgent  wings  expanded  their  snowy  plumage  from  his 
glorious  shoulders,  and  on  his  forehead  shone  a  star  like 
that  of  morning.  He  touched  the  mortal  hand  that 
throbbed  to  meet  his  clasp  ;  the  last  film  fell  from  the 
painter's  eye,  and  he  saw,  with  ecstasy,  no  horrid  phantom, 
but  AZRAEL,  the  Angel  of  Death,  great,  beautiful,  and 
good. 


THE  LATE  ELIAS  MUGGS, 

CAPTAIN  IN  THE  M.  V.  M. 

ELIAS  MUGGS  is  no  more!  Hepzibah  Muggs  is  a 
widow  ;  a  stranger  has  purchased  the  stock  of  West  India 
goods,  and  the  Bluetown  Fusileers  are  commanded  by  the 
first  l:3utenant.  These  are  sad  changes. 

It  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  though  Captain  Elias 
Muggs  was  not  born  in  the  same  year  as  the  Duke  of  Wel 
lington,  (though,  by  the  way,  every  body  else  seems  to  have 
been,)  yet  he  died  about  the  same  time.  There  was  a 
striking  similarity  between  their  characters  and  positions. 
The  Iron  Duke  was  commander-in-chief  of  the  allied  forces 
at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  Elias  Muggs  was  commander 
of  the  Bluetown  Fusileers.  If  Elias  Muggs  had  been  born 
on  the  other  side  of  the  water,  he  probably  would  have  been 
the  Duke  of  Wellington ;  and  if  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
had  been  born  here,  he  would  probably  have  been  Elias 
Muggs.  This  proposition  may  appear  a  metaphysical 
subtlety  to  obtuse  minds,  but  to  ours  it  seems  as  clear  as 
mud. 

When  such  a  man  dies,  he  must  not  be  permitted  to 
depart 

"  Without  the  meed  of  one  melodious  tear." 

His  loss  is  a  national  loss.     Nature  seems  to  have  intended 

207 


208  THE    LATE    ELTAS    MUGGS. 

him  for  President  of  the  United  States,  but  "  left  him  two 
drinks  behind ; "  whence  we  may  conclude  that  Nature  is  a 
humbug,  a  conclusion  practically  arrived  at  by  most  artists, 
living  and  dead. 

Elias  Muggs,  from  his  tenderest  years,  was  devoted  tc 
groceries  and  glory.  His  venerable  schoolmistress,  who  has 
outlived  her  illustrious  pupil,  and  is  now  supported  by  the 
town  whose  founders  were  formed  by  her  care,  and  who 
laid  the  foundation  of  our  hero's  greatness  by  the  powerful 
application  of  birch  at  the  seat  of  learning,  assured  us,  in 
a  recent  interview,  that  the  military  propensities  of  Mugga 
were  developed  at  an  early  age.  She  observed  that  it  was 
impossible  to  fix  his  attention  on  the  classic  page  of  Noah 
Webster  when  the  Bluetown  Fusileers  were  passing  the 
school  house  with  drum  and  fife,  and  that  the  motive  of  his 
first  experiment  at  "  hooking  jack  "  was  a  desire  to  attend 
a  country  muster  in  the  neighboring  town.  She  added, 
that  she  distinctly  remembered  having  confiscated  a  box  of 
tin  soldiers  with  which  he  was  amusitfg  himself,  and  that 
he  threatened  to  "  punch  her  eye  "  if  she  did  not  release 
the  unconscious  prisoners  of  war  on  parole.  These  are 
very  important  facts. 

We  are  unable  to  state  the  precise  age  at  which  Elias 
entered  the  service  —  but  the  town  clerk  of  Bluetown 
places  it  at  twenty-one.  He  went  through  the  different 
grades  with  great  rapidity,  and  was  finally  chosen  captain 
in  a  warmly-contested  election.  There  is  no  question  that 
he  would  have  been  elected  unanimously,  without  difficulty, 
had  there  not  existed  a  great  doubt  in  the  corps  (Cap 
tain  Muggs,  by  the  way,  always  pronounced  this  word,  and 
spelled  it,  corpse)  of  his  ability  to  "  treat ; "  whereas  his  ad  • 
versary  was  distinguished  for  possessing  a  "  pocket  full  of 
rocks,"  and  a  willingness  "  to  treat  every  body."  The  success 


THE    LATE    ELIAS   MUGGS.  209 

of  our  hero,  under  the  circumstances,  was  purely  owing  to 
military  merit.  The  moment  he  was  chosen,  he  took  the 
field  at  the  head  of  his  command.  Admiring  Bluetown 
gazed  approvingly  upon  his  swallow-tailed  coat,  his  tall 
plume,  his  shining  battle  blade,  his  plated  scabbard,  worsted 
cash,  and  low-heeled,  cowhide  boots.  The  fair,  who  are 
ever  ready  to  award  their  smiles  to  chivalry,  were  unani 
mous  in  their  approval,  and  Deacon  Dogget's  daughter  was 
heard  to  murmur,  "  O,  what  a  pooty  soger  'lias  makes ! " 
"  Upon  this  hint  he  spake  "  a  few  days  afterwards,  and  in 
due  time  they  were  married.  But  enough  of  that  —  our 
essay  treats  of  war,  not  love. 

In  his  "  first  field,"  Captain  Muggs  displayed  his  extraor 
dinary  knowledge  of  tactics.  He  it  was  who  first  dis 
covered  the  method  of  "  dressing  "  a  line,  by  backing  it  up 
against  a  curbstone.  He  also  divested  military  science  of 
many  pedantic  terms,  which  tend  only  to  confuse  the  young 
conscript,  and  dampen  the  military  ardor  of  the  patriot 
soldier.  He  substituted  the  brief  and  soldierly  words 
of  command,  "haw!"  "gee!"  and  "whoa!"  for  "left," 
"  right,"  and  "  halt."  His  spirited  "  let  her  rip  ! "  was  an 
infinite  improvement  on  the  "  fire  "  of  the  Steuben  manual. 
The  object  of  the  commander  is  to  make  himself  understood 
readily  by  his  men,  and  in  this  Captain  Muggs  was  per 
fectly  successful. 

The  greatest  commanders  have  been  famous  for  their 
terse  eloquence.  Napoleon  said  to  his  troops  in  Egypt, 
"  Soldiers,  from  the  summit  of  these  pyramids  twenty  cen 
turies  look  down  on  you  this  day."  Scott,  in  Mexico,  said 
to  Smith's  brigade,  "  Brave  rifles,  you  have  been  baptized 
in  fire,  and  have  come  out  steel."  And  Muggs,  at  Blue- 
town,  after  the  last  mano3uvre,  said,  "  Feller  sogers,  that 
ere  was  prime  —  and  now  less  adjourn  to  the  tavern  and 
18* 


210  THE    LATE    ELIAS    MUGGS. 

likker  up  at  my  expense."  It  is  questionable  whether  any 
speech  of  Napoleon  or  Scott  ever  excited  more  enthusiasm 

The  company  adjourned  to  the  tavern,  and  after  plen 
tifully  refreshing  with  long  nines,  pigtail,  New  England,  and 
crackers,  departed  with  three  cheers  for  the  "  cap'n."  We 
would  fain  draw  a  veil  over  what  followed.  But  a  strict 
regard  for  truth  compels  us  to  "  speak  right  out  in 
meetin'."  All  great  men  have  their  weaknesses.  Ccesar 
was  not  immaculate.  Alexander  the  Great  died  of  mania 
a  potu.  There  was  no  Maine  liquor  law  at  the  time  of 
which  we  speak.  There  was  not  even  a  temperance  society 
in  all  Bluetown. 

Captain  Muggs  was  in  the  green  and  salad  days  of  youth. 
He  was  flushed  with  military  success,  young,  ardent,  and 
imprudent. 

He  retired  to  a  private  room  with  the  commissioned 
officers  of  his  "  corps,"  and  left  a  liberal  order  at  the  bar. 
Healths  were  drank,  songs  sung,  patriotic  and  otherwise, 
more  otherwise  than  patriotic,  and  the  "  fast  and  furious  " 
fun  was  driven  into  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  When 
the  bill  was  presented,  Captain  Muggs  was  without  funds  ; 
and  his  gallant  subordinates,  on  the  bare  suggestion  of  a 
loan,  incontinently  vanished.  Captain  Muggs  intimated 
something  about  credit.  The  landlord  shook  his  head. 
Captain  Muggs  was  grieved,  and  the  landlord  consulted  the 
flytraps  on  the  ceiling,  still  extending  his  open  hand,  with 
the  palm  upwards,  in  the  direction  of  the  officer.  Finding 
the  publican  obdurate,  the  captain  proposed  to  leave  his 
uniform  and  equipments  in  pawn,  and  the  offer  was  ac 
cepted. 

And  here  let  us  pause  to  contemplate  the  moral  great 
ness  of  this  act.  Those  insignia  of  rank  were  as  dear  to 
Muggs  as  the  apple  of  his  eye.  They  were  to  him  what 


THE    LATE    ELIAS    MUGGS.  211 

the  sceptre  and  crown  were  to  Napoleon.  It  was  like  tug 
ging  at  his  heartstrings  to  unfasten  the  belt  and  sash,  and 
lay  the  sword  upon  the  table.  Marsyas  suffered  not  more 
when  Apollo  removed  his  skin  than  Muggs  did  when  the 
landlord  stripped  off  his  coat  and  epaulets.  When  the 
hat  and  plume  were  laid  upon  the  altar  of  offended  Mam 
mon,  Muggs  uttered  a  deep  groan,  and  departed  in  his  shirt 
sleeves.  If  we  were  a  great  historical  painter,  we  should 
prefer  this  subject  to  that  of  Washington  resigning  his  com 
mission  as  commander-in-chief  of  the  revolutionary  army. 

The  same  integrity  distinguished  Captain  Muggs  through 
out  his  life.  When,  some  years  afterwards,  he  received  a 
letter  from  a  lawyer,  stating  that,  in  case  he  did  not  imme 
diately  satisfy  a  certain  claim  of  five  years'  standing,  legal 
measures  would  be  adopted  to  enforce  payment,  he  remitted 
the  sum  in  question  without  a  murmur. 

Personal  courage  is  not  deemed  indispensable  to  great 
commanders.  Marlborough  is  said  to  have  trembled  on  the 
battle  field.  It  is  the  part  of  the  officer  to  command  — 
of  the  men  to  execute.  But  Muggs  was  as  valiant  as  he 
was  wise.  On  a  field  day,  when  a  certain  turbulent  apple 
woman  persisted  in  encroaching  on  the  lines,  Captain  Muggs 
charged  her  in  person,  unsupported  by  his  troops,  upset  her 
apple  stall,  and  expelled  her  from  the  lines.  Such  achieve 
ments  are  of  rare  occurrence. 

On  every  parade  day,  Muggs  was  "thar."  In  every 
sham  fight  he  was  first  and  foremost.  He  was  always 
loudest  in  proclaiming  the  "  dooty  of  the  milingtary  to 
support  the  civil  power."  Yet  hi  the  great  riot  caused  by 
the  illegal  impounding  of  Steve  Gubbins's  bull,  when  Blue- 
town  was  divided  against  itself,  her  constabulary  force  and 
"specials"  ignominiously  beaten  and  routed,  Captain 
Muggs,  with  an  heroic  deafness  to  the  call  of  glory  and  t£  3 


212  THE    LATE    ELIA8    MUGGS, 

selectmen,  from  a  reluctance  to  shed  the  blood  of  his  fellow- 
citizens,  refused  to  call  out  his  company,  and  concealed 
himself  in  a  hayloft  till  the  affray  was  over,  the  pound  com 
pletely  demolished,  and  the  bull  rescued  from  the  minions 
of  the  law. 

The  loss  of  such  a  man  is  irreparable.  What  a  president 
he  would  have  made !  Magnanimity,  self-denial,  punctual 
ity,  eloquence,  popularity,  military  glory  —  why,  he  had  all 
the  elements  of  success.  But  our  heroes  are  fast  passing 
away.  Muggs  is  gone,  and  we  must  make  up  our  minds 
to  be  governed  by  mere  statesmen ! 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

IT  was  a  fine  night  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  1805,  and 
the  stars  shone  as  brilliantly  over  the  gay  city  of  Paris  us  if 
they  had  burned  in  an  Italian  heaven.  The  cumbrous  mass 
of  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries,  instead  of  lying  like  a  dark 
leviathan  in  the  shadows  of  the  night,  blazed  with  light  in 
all  its  many-windowed  length ;  for  the  soldier  emperor,  the 
idol  of  his  subjects,  that  night  gave  a  grand  ball  and  re 
ception  to  the  world.  Troops  in  full  uniform  were  under 
arms,  **nd  the  great  lamps  of  the  court  yard  gazed  brightly 
on  the  channelled  bayonets  and  polished  musket  barrels  of 
the  sertinels.  Carriage  after  carriage  drew  up  at  the  great 
porta).  and  emitted  beautiful  ladies,  brilliantly  attired,  and 
marshals  and  staff  officers  blazing  with  embroidery ;  for 
Napoleon,  simple  and  unostentatious  in  his  own  person,  well 
knew  the  importance  of  surrounding  himself  with  a  bril 
liant  court ;  and  the  people,  even  the  rude  and  ragged  deni 
zens  of  the  Faubourgs  St.  Antoine  and  St.  Marceau,  as  they 
hung  upon  the  iron  railing  and  scanned  the  splendid  dresses 
of  the  guests  as  they  alighted  from  their  carriages,  were 
well  pleased  to  see  that  a  throne  created  by  themselves 
could  vie  in  splendor  with  the  old  hereditary  seats  of  loy 
alty  that  existed  in  spite  of  the  execrations  of  the  million. 
They  marked  with  pleasure  the  arms  of  some  of  the  ancient 
Bourbon  nobility  on  the  panels  of  some  of  the  glittering 

o  213 


214  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

equipages,  for  all  the  aristocracy  of  France  had  not  joined 
the  banners  of  her  adversaries. 

Within  the  walls  of  the  palace,  in  the  reception  room, 
the  scene  was  yet  more  dazzling.  The  draperies  of  the 
throne,  at  the  foot  of  which  stood  Josephine,  more  impres 
sive  from  her  native  and  winning  loveliness  than  the  splen 
dor  of  the  priceless  diamonds  that  decked  her  brow  and 
neck,  and  the  emperor  in  the  simple  attire  of  a  gentleman 
with  no  distinctive  ornament  save  the  grand  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor :  the  draperies  of  the  throne,  we  say, 
no  longer  presented  the  golden  lilies  of  the  Bourbon,  but 
the  golden  bees  of  Napoleon  —  symbols  of  the  industry 
and  perseverance  which  had  raised  him  to  his  rank.  The 
eye,  as  it  roamed  around  the  brilliant  circle,  encountered 
few  of  those  vapid  faces  which  make  the  staple  of  the  sur 
roundings  of  an  hereditary  throne.  Every  epaulet  that 
sparkled  there  graced  the  shoulder  of  a  man  who  had 
won  his  grade  by  exposure,  gallantry,  and  intellect.  Thero 
was  the  scarred  veteran  of  the  Sambre  and  the  Meuser 
heroes  who  had  crossed  "  that  terrible  bridge  of  Lodi "  in 
the  path  of  the  French  tricolor  and  the  face  of  the  wither 
ing  fire  of  Austrian  batteries  —  dim  eyes  that  had  been 
blighted  by  the  burning  sands  of  Egypt,  warriors  who  had 
braved  the  perils  of  the  Alps,  and  the  dangers  of  the  plain? 
of  Lombardy. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  brilliant  circle,  in  the  embra 
sure  of  one  of  the  deep  and  lofty  windows,  stood  a  young 
officer,  in  conversation  with  a  beautiful  young  woman.  The 
latter  was  attired  in  white  satin,  and  the  rich  lace  veil  that 
half  hid  the  orange  flower  in  her  hair,  and  descended  grace 
fully  over  her  faultless  shoulders,  proclaimed  her  to  be  a 
bride.  And  the  young  soldier,  her  companion?  The 
radiant  pride  a'  d  joy  that  beamed  from  his  fine  dark  eye, 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  215 

the  animation  of  his  manner,  and  the  tenderness  of  his  tone, 
as  he  addressed  the  lady,  emphatically  proclaimed  the  bride 
groom.  Such,  indeed,  were  the  relations  of  Colonel 
Lioncourt  and  Leonide  Lasalle,  who  had  that  day  only 
lost  her  maiden  appellation  at  the  altar  of  Notre  Dame. 

So  absorbed  was  the  young  colonel  in  the  conversation, 
that  it  was  only  after  he  had  been  twice  addressed  that  he 
turned  and  noticed  the  proximity  of  a  third  person. 

"  Sorry  to  interrupt  you,  colonel,"  said  the  new  comer, 
a  young  man  with  dark  lowering  brows,  deep-set  eyes,  and 
a  sinister  expression,  heightened  by  a  sabre  cut  that,  trav 
ersed  his  left  cheek  diagonally,  "  but  his  majesty  desires  to 
speak  to  you." 

"  Au  revoir,  Leonide,"  said  the  young  colonel  to  his 
bride ;  "  I  will  join  you  again  in  a  few  moments.  The  em 
peror  is  laconic  enough  in  his  communications.  Meanwhile, 
I  leave  you  to  the  care  of  my  friend." 

The  emperor  was  already  impatient,  and  the  moment  the 
colonel  appeared  he  grasped  his  arm  familiarly,  arid  led  him 
aside,  while  the  immediate  group  of  courtiers  fell  back  re 
spectfully,  and  out  of  earshot. 

"  Colonel,"  said  Napoleon,"!  have  news  —  great  news. 
The  enemies  of  France  will  not  give  us  a  moment's  repose. 
It  is  no  longer  England  alone  that  threatens  us.  I  could 
have  crushed  England,  had  she  met  me  single  handed.  In 
a  month  my  eagles  would  have  lighted  on  the  tower  of 
London.  Russia,  Austria,  and  Sweden  have  joined  her. 
Our  frontier  is  threatened  by  half  a  million  men.  Lion- 
court,  you  are  brave  and  trusty,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
dare  communicate  to  few.  My  movements  must  be  as  se 
cret  as  the  grave.  Paris  must  not  suspect  them.  "What  da 
you  think  I  propose  doing  ?  " 


216  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

"  To  strengthen  the  frontier  by  concentrating  your  troops 
on  different  points,  sire." 

Napoleon  smiled. 

"  No,  Lidhcourt ;  we  will  beard  the  lion  in  his  den.  I 
have  broken  up  the  camp  at  Boulogne.  I  will  rush  at  once 
into  the  heart  of  Germany.  I  will  separate  the  enemy's 
columns  from  each  other.  The  first  division  that  marches 
against  me  shall  be  outflanked,  attacked  in  the  rear,  and  cut 
to  pieces.  One  after  another  they  shall  fall  before  me.  In 
three  months  I  shall  triumph  over  the  coalition.  I  shall 
dictate  terms  of  peace  from  the  field  of  battle.  Lioncourt, 
they  are  short  sighted.  They  know  nothing  of  me  yet. 
They  fancy  that  my  heart  is  engaged  in  these  frivolous 
pomps  and  gayeties  with  which  I  amuse  the  people  —  that 
I  have  become  enervated  by  '  Capuan  delights.'  But 
you  know  me  better.  You  know  that  my  throne  is  the 
back  of  my  war  horse  —  that  the  sword  is  my  sceptre, 
cannon  my  diplomatists.  I  wished  for  peace  —  they 
have  elected  war;  on  their  heads  be  the  guilt  and  the 
bloodshed." 

He  paused,  out  of  breath  with  the  rapidity  of  his  utter 
ance.  Colonel  Lioncourt  waited  respectfully  till  he  should 
recommence. 

"  Colonel,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  sadness,  a  mel 
ancholy  shade  passing  over  his  fine  features,  "  they  have 
described  me  as  a  sanguinary  monster.  History  will  do 
me  justice.  History  will  attest  that  I  never  drew  the 
sword  without  just  cause  —  that  I  returned  it  to  its  scab 
bard  on  the  earliest  opportunity.  Not  on  my  soul  the  guilt 
of  slaughtered  thousands,  of  villages  burned,  of  peasants 
'driven  from  their  homes,  of  fields  ravaged,  of  women  wid 
owed,  and  children  orphaned.  My  whole  soul  yearns  for 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  217 

peace.  I  would  build  my  true  greatness  on  .the  promul^ 
gation  of  just  laws,  the  culture  of  religion  and  intellect,  the 
triumphs  of  agriculture,  and  the  arts  of  peace.  But  I  must 
obey  my  destiny.  Europe  must  be  ploughed  by  the  sword. 
The  struggle  is  between  civilization  and  barbarism,  freedom 
and  despotism,  the  Frank  and  the  Cossack.  But  I  prate  too 
long.  Colonel,  I  sent  for  you  to  pronounce  a  hard  sentence. 
Your  regiment  of  hussars  is  already  under  arms.  You 
must  march  to-night  —  instantly." 

"  Sire,"  said  Lioncourt,  with  a  sigh.  "  This  news  will 
kill  my  poor  wife." 

"Josephine  shall  console  her,"  said  the  emperor.  "I 
would  have  informed  you  earlier,  but  St.  Eustache,  your 
lieutenant  colonel,  whom  I  now  see  talking  with  madame, 
advised  me  not  to  do  so." 

"  I  thank  him,"  muttered  Lioncourt  bitterly. 

"  You  have  no  time  to  lose.  I  counsel  you  to  leave  the 
presence  quietly.  Let  your  wife  learn  that  you  have 
marched  by  a  letter.  Better  that  than  the  agony  of  part 
ing.  I  know  something  of  human,  and  particularly  femi 
nine,  nature.  Adieu,  colonel.  Courage  and  good  fortune." 

And  so  saying,  the  emperor  glided  easily  back  to  the 
circle  he  had  left.  Lioncourt's  brain  reeled  under  the 
blow  he  had  received.  He  gazed  upon  his  wife  as  she  stood 
radiant,  beautiful,  and  unsuspicious,  under  a  glittering 
chandelier,  with  the  same  feelings  with  which  a  man  takes 
his  last  look  of  the  shore  as  he  sinks  forever  in  the  treach 
erous  wave.  In  another  moment  he  was  gone.  The  sen 
tries  presented  arms  as  he  passed  out  of  the  palace.  His 
orderly  was  in  the  court  yard  holding  his  charger  by  the 
bridle.  The  colonel  threw  himself  into  the  saddle,  and  was 
soon  at  the  head  of  the  regiment.  The  trumpets  and  kettle 
drums  were  mute  —  for  such  were  the  general  orders  —~ 
19 


218  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

and  the  regiment  rode  out  of  the  city  in  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  heavy  tramping  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  and  the 
clankkig  of  scabbards  rebounding  from  their  flanks.  As 
they  passed  out  of  one  of  the  gates,  the  lieutenant  colonel, 
St.  Eustache,  joined  the  column  at  a  gallop,  and  reported 
to  his  commander. 

St.  Eustache  had  been  a  lover  of  Leonide  Lasalle,  had 
proposed  for  her  hand,  and  been  rejected.  Still,  he  had  not 
utterly  ceased  to  love  her,  but  his  desire  of  possession  was 
now  mingled  with  a  thirst  of  vengeance.  He  both  hated 
and  loved  the  beautiful  Leonide,  while  he  regarded  his  for 
tunate  rival  and  commanding  officer  with  feelings  of  un 
mitigated  hatred.  Yet  he  had  art  enough  to  conceal  his 
guilty  feelings  and  guilty  projects.  While  he  rode  beside 
the  wlonel,  his  thoughts  ran  somewhat  in  this  vein :  — 

"  Well,  at  least  I  have  succeeded  in  marring  their  joy. 
Lioncourt's  triumph  over  me  was  short  lived.  He  may 
never  see  his  bride  again.  He  is  venturesome  and  rash. 
We  have  sharp  work  before  us,  or  I'm  very  much  mistaken, 
and  Colonel  Eugene  Lioncourt  may  figure  in  the  list  of  killed 
in  the  first  general  engagement.  Then  I  renew  my  suit, 
and  if  Leonide  again  reject  me,  there's  no  virtue  in  deter 
mination." 

While  the  colonel's  regiment  was  slowly  pursuing  its 
way,  the  festivities  at  the  Tuileries  were  drawing  to  a  close. 
Madame  Lioncourt  wondered  very  much  at  the  absence  of 
her  husband,  and  still  more  so  when  the  guests  began  to 
depart,  and  he  did  not  reappear  to  escort  her  to  her  car 
riage.  It  was  then  that  the  empress  honored  her  with  an 
interview,  and,  with  tears  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  informed 
her  of  her  husband's  march  in  obedience  to  orders.  The 
poor  lady  bore  bravely  up  against  the  effect  of  this  intelli 
gence  so  long  as  she  was  in  the  presence  of  the  emperoi 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  219 

and  empresss ;  but  when  alone  in  her  carriage,  on  her  wav 
to  her  now  solitary  home,  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  her  very  heart  were  breaking.  The  next 
morning  brought  a  short  but  kind  note  from  her  husband. 
It  was  oversowing  with  affection  and  full  of  hope.  The 
campaign,  conducted  by  Napoleon's  genius,  he  thought, 
could  not  fail  to  be  brief,  and  he  should  return  with  new 
laurels,  to  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  his  lovely  bride.  This 
little  note  was  treasured  up  by  Leonide  as  if  it  had  been 
the  relic  of  a  saint,  and  its  words  of  love  and  promise 
cheered  her  day  after  day  in  the  absence  of  her  husband. 

At  last,  news  came  to  the  capital  from  the  seat  of  war. 
The  battle  of  Austerlitz  had  been  fought  and  won.  The 
cannon  thundered  from  the  Invalides,  Paris  blazed  with 
illuminations,  and  the  steeples  reeled  with  the  crashing 
peals  of  the  joy  bells.  No  particulars  came  at  first ;  many 
had  been  killed  and  wounded ;  but  the  French  eagles  were 
victorious,  and  this  was  all  the  people  at  first  cared  for. 
Lioncourt's  regiment  had  covered  itself  with  glory,  but 
no  special  mention  was  made  of  him  in  the  first  despatches. 

At  last,  one  morning,  a  visitor  was  announced  to  Madame 
Lioncourt,  and  she  hastily  descended  to  her  salon  to  receive 
him.  St.  Eustache  advanced  to  meet  her.  She  eagerly 
scanned  his  countenance  as  he  held  out  his  hand.  It  was 
grave  and  sombre.  A  second  glance  showed  her  a  black 
crape  sword  knot  on  the  hilt  of  his  sabre.  She  fainted  and 
sank  upon  the  floor  before  St.  Eustache  could  catch  her  in 
his  arms.  He  summoned  her  maid,  and  the  latter,  with 
the  assistance  of  another  servant,  bore  her  mistress  from 
the  apartment. 

St.  Eustache  paced  the  room  to  and  fro,  occasionally 
rising  his  eyes  to  contemplate  the  rich  gilded  ceiling,  the 
paintings  and  statuettes,  which  adorned  the  salon. 


220  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

"  Some  style  here  ! "  he  muttered.  "  And  they  say 
she  has  this  in  her  own  right.  Lioncourt  left  her  some 
funds,  I  fancy.  Young,  beautiful,  rich ;  by  Jove,  she  is  a 
prize." 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  by  the  return  of  Ma 
dame  Lioncourt,  who  motioned  her  visitor  to  be  seated,  and 
sank  into  &fauteuil  herself.  She  was  pale  as  marble,  and 
her  eyes  were  red  with  recent  tears,  but  her  voice  was  calm 
and  firm  as  she  said,  — 

"  I  need  hardly  ask  you,  sir,  if  my  poor  husband  has 
fallen.  I  could  read  ill  news  in  your  countenance  as  soon 
as  you  appeared.  Were  you  near  him  when  he  fell  ?  " 

"  I  was  beside  him,  madame.  We  were  charging  the 
flying  Russians.  Our  horses,  maddened  with  excitement, 
had  carried  us  far  in  advance  of  our  column,  when  sudden 
ly  we  were  surrounded  by  a  group  of  horsemen,  who  took 
courage  and  rallied  for  a  moment.  Lioncourt  was  carrying 
death  in  every  blow  he  dealt,  when  a  Russian  cavalry  offi 
cer,  discharging  his  pistol  at  point  blank  distance,  shot  him 
dead  from  the  saddle.  I  saw  no  more,  for  I  was  myself 
wounded  and  swept  away  in  the  torrent  of  the  fight.  But 
he  is  dead.  Even  if  that  pistol  shot  had  not  slain  him,  the 
hoofs  of  his  own  troopers,  as  they  rushed  madly  forward  in 
pursuit  of  the  enemy,  would  have  trampled  every  spark  of 
life  out  of  his  bosom." 

Leonide  wrung  her  hands. 

"  But  you,  at  least,  recovered  his  —  his  remains  ?" 

"  Pardon,  madame.  I  instituted  a  search  for  our  colonel's 
body  where  he  fell.  But  the  spot  had  already  been  visited 
by  marauders.  All  the  insignia  of  rank  had  disappeared  ; 
and  in  the  mangled  heap  of  stripped  and  mutilated  corpses, 
It  was  impossible  to  distinguish  friend  from  foe." 

The  widowed  bride  groaned  deeply  as  she  covered  he* 


THE  SOLDIEK'S  WIFE.  221 

face  with  her  handkerchief  and  rocked  to  and  fro  on  her 
seat. 

"  Madame,"  said  St.  Eustache,  "  I  will  no  longer  intrude 
upon  your  grief.  When  time  has  somewhat  assuaged  the 
.poignancy  of  your  affliction,  I  will  arain  call  on  you  to  ten 
der  my  respectful  sympathies." 

Time  wore  on,  and  with  it  brought  those  alleviations  it 
affords  to  even  the  keenest  sorrow.  The  assiduity  of  friends 
compelled  Madame  Lioncourt  to  lay  aside  her  widow's 
weeds,  arid  reappear  in  the  great  world  of  fashion.  There, 
whatever  may  have  been  her  secret  sorrow,  she  learned  to 
wear  the  mask  of  a  smiling  exterior,  and  even  to  appear 
gayest  among  the  gay,  as  if  she  sought  forgetfulness  in  the 
wildest  excitement  and  most  frivolous  amusement. 

During  all  this  time,  St.  Eustache,  who  had  got  a  mili 
tary  appointment  at  Paris,  was  ever  at  her  side.  It  was* 
impossible  for  her  to  avoid  him.  He  escorted  her  to  her 
carriage  when  she  left  a  ball  room ;  he  was  the  first  to 
claim  her  hand  when  she  entered.  He  was  so  respectful, 
so  sad,  so  humble,  that  it  was  impossible  to  take  offence  at 
his  assiduities,  and  she  even  began  to  like  him  in  spite  of 
former  prejudices.  Though  it  was  evident  that  the  free 
dom  of  her  hand  had  renewed  his  former  hopes,  still  no 
words  of  his  ever  betrayed  their  revival ;  only  sometimes  a 
suppressed  sigh,  the  trembling  of  his  hand  as  it  touched 
hers,  gave  evidence  that  could  not  be  mistaken. 

Affairs  were  in  this  condition,  when  a  brother  of  Leo- 
nide,  Alfred  Lasalle,  a  young  advocate  from  the  provinces, 
came  to  establish  himself  in  Paris.  He  at  once  became 
the  protector  and  guardian  of  his  sister,  and,  as  such,  con 
ceived  the  same  violent  dislike  to  St.  Eustache  that  Leonide 
had  formerly  entertained  towards  him.  St.  Eustache,  after 
many  fruitless  attempts  to  conciliate  the  brother,  gave  it  up 
19* 


222  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

in  despair.  Still,  whenever  Alfred's  affairs  called  Lira 
away,  he  supplied  his  place  with  the  young  widow. 

At  this  time,  play  sometimes  ran  very  high  in  the  salons 
of  the  capital ;  and  Leonide  rose  from  the  ecarte  table  one 
night,  indebted  to  St.  Eustache  in  the  sum  of  a  thousand 
crowns. 

"  Call  on  me  to-morrow,"  said  Leonide,  with  a  flush 6 J 
face,  "  and  I  will  repay  you." 

St.  Eustache  was  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  affairs 
of  the  young  widow.  He  knew  that  she  had  been  living 
on  her  capital  for  some  time,  and  that  she  had  reached  the 
limit  of  her  resources.  He  knew  that  it  was  utterly  im 
possible  for  her  to  raise  a  thousand  crowns  in  twenty -four 
hours.  She  must,  therefore,  he  thought,  cancel  her  debt 
by  her  hand.  This  was  the  alternative  to  which  he  had 
been  manoeuvring  to  bring  her ;  therefore  he  entered  her 
salon  the  next  day  with  the  air  of  a  victor.  He  was  no 
longer  covetous  of  wealth ;  he  had  prospered  in  his  own 
speculations,  and  was  immensely  rich ;  the  hand  of  Leo 
nide,  even  without  her  heart,  was  now  all  he  sought. 

Madame  Lioncourt  received  him  with  the  easy  assurance 
of  a  woman  of  the  world.  He,  on  his  part,  advanced  with 
the  grace  of  a  French  courtier. 

"  You  came  to  remind  me,  sir,"  said  the  lady,  "  that  I 
was  unfortunate  at  play  last  night." 

"No,  madame,"  said  St.  Eustache,  "it  is  yourself  who 
reminds  me  of  it.  Pardon  me,  I  am  somewhat  ac 
quainted  with  your  circumstances.  I  know  that  you  are 
no  longer  as  rich  as  you  are  beautiful " 

"Sir!" 

"  Pardon  the  allusion,  madam  ;  I  did  not  intend  to  insult 
you,  but  only  to  suggest  that  the  payment  of  money  was 
not  the  only  method  of  cancelling  a  debt." 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  236 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  sir." 

"  Leonide,  it  is  time  that  you  did  understand  me  !  "  cried 
St.  Eustache,  impetuously.  "  It  is  time  that  I  should  throw 
off  the  mask  and  assert  my  claim  to  your  hand.  I  loved  you 
once  —  I  love  you  still.  You  are  now  in  my  power.  You 
cannot  pay  me  the  money  you  owe  me  ;  but  you  can  make 
me  happy.  Your  hand " 

"  Colonel  St.  Eustache,"  said  the  lady,  coldly,  as  she  rose 
and  handed  him  a  pocket  book,  "be  good  enough  to 
count  those  notes." 

St.  Eustache  ran  over  them  hastily. 

"  A  thousand  crowns,  madame,"  he  said. 

"  Then  the  debt  is  cancelled.  Never  renew  the  proposal 
of  this  morning.  Good  day,  sir." 

With  a  haughty  inclination  of  the  head,  she  swept  out 
of  the  room. 

"  Never  renew  the  proposal  of  this  morning  ! "  said  St. 
Eustache  to  himself.  "A  thousand  furies!  It  shall  be 
renewed  to-night.  She  will  be  at  the  masquerade  at  the 
opera  house.  I  have  bribed  her  chambermaid,  and  know 
her  dress.  She  shall  hear  me  plead  my  suit.  I  have 
dared  too  much,  perilled  too  much,  to  give  her  up  so 
easily." 

Amidst  the  gay  crowd  at  the  opera  house  was  a  light 
figure  in  a  pink  domino,  attended  by  one  in  black.  Not  to 
make  a  mystery  of  these  characters,  they  were  Madame 
Lioncourt  and  her  brother. 

"  Dear  Alfred,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  am  afraid  you  im 
poverished  yourself  to  aid  me  in  extricating  myself  from 
the  toils  of  my  persevering  suitor." 

"  Say  nothing  of  it,  Leonide,"  replied  Alfred.  "  Your 
liberty  is  cheaply  purchased  by  the  sacrifice." 


224  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

"  Lady,  one  word  with  you,"  said  a  low  voice  at  her 
Bide. 

She  turned,  and  beheld  a  pilgrim  with  scrip,  staff,  and 
cross,  and  closely  masked. 

"  Twenty,  if  you  will,  reverend  sir,"  she  replied  gayly. 
"  But  methinks  this  is  a  strange  scene  for  one  of  your 
solemn  vocation." 

"  The  true  man,"  replied  the  mask,  "  finds  something  to 
interest  him  in  every  scene  of  life.  Wherever  men  and 
women  assemble  in  crowds,  there  is  always  an  opportunity 
for  counsel  and  consolation.  The  pious  pilgrim  should 
console  the  sad ;  and  are  not  the  saddest  hearts  found  in 
the  gayest  throngs  ?  " 

"  True,  true,"  replied  Leonide,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  But  you,  at  least,  are  happy,  lady,"  said  the  pilgrim. 

"  Hagpy !  Could  you  see  my  face,  you  would  see  a 
mask  more  impenetrable  than  this  velvet  one  I  wear.  It  is 
all  smiles,"  she  whispered.  "  But,"  she  added,  laying  her 
hand  on  her  bosom,  — 

*  I  have  a  silent  sorrow  here, 
A  grief  I'll  ne'er  impart ; 
It  heaves  no  sigh,  it  sheds  no  tear, 
But  it  consumes  my  heart.'  " 

"  Can  it  be  possible ! "  cried  the  pilgrim.  "  You  have 
the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  gayest  of  the  Parisian 
ladies." 

"  Then  you  know  me  not." 

"I  know  you 'by  name,  Madame  Lioncourt." 

"  Then  you  should  know  that  name  represents  a  noble 
End  gallant  heart  —  the  life  of  my  own  widowed  bosom. 
You  should  know  that  Lioncourt,  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  225 

the  truest  of  the  true,  lies  in  a  nameless  grave  at  Auster 
litz,  the  very  spot  unknown." 

"  I  too  was  at  Austerlitz,"  said  the  pilgrim,  in  a  deep 
voice. 

"  You  were  at  Austerlitz  ! " 

"  Yes,  madame,  in  the  —  hussars." 

"  It  was  my  husband's  regiment." 

"  Yes,  madame.  I  was  for  a  long  tim*  supposed  to  be 
dead.  My  comrades  saw  me  fall,  and  I  was  reported  for 
dead.  Faith,  I  came  near  dying.  But  I  fell  into  the 
hands  of  some  good  people,  though  they  were  Austrians, 
and  they  took  good  care  of  me,  and  cured  my  wounds ;  and 
here  I  am  at  last." 

"  Ah !  why,"  exclaimed  Madame  Lioncourt,  "  may  this 
not  have  been  the  fate  of  your  colonel  ?  Why  may  not  ho 
too  have  survived  the  carnage,  and  been  preserved  in  the 
same  manner  ?  His  body  was  never  recognized." 

"  Very  possibly  Lioncourt  may  still  be  living." 

"  Yet  St.  Eustache  told  me  he  was  dead." 

"  He  is  a  false  traitor ! "  cried  the  pilgrim.  "  Leonide  ! " 
cried  he,  with  thrilling  emphasis,  "you  have  borne  bad 
news ;  can  you  bear  good  ?  " 

"  God  will  give  me  strength  to  bear  good  tidings,"  cried 
the  lady. 

"  Then  arm  yourself  with  all  your  energy,"  said  the 
stranger.  "  Lioncourt  lives." 

"  Lives  ! "  said  Leonide,  faintly,  grasping  the  arm  of  the 
stranger  to  support  herself  from  falling. 

"  Courage,  madame  ;  I  tell  you  the  truth.     He  lives." 

"  Then  take  me  to  him.  The  crisis  is  past.  I  can  bear 
to  meet  him ;  nothing  but  delay  will  kill  me  now ! "  cried 
the  lady,  hurriedly. 

"  He  stands  beside  you  !  "  said  the  stranger. 


226  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

A  long,  deep  sigh,  and  Leonide  lay  in  the  arms  of  the 
pilgrim,  who  was  still  masked.  But  she  recovered  herself 
with  superhuman  energy,  and  said,  — 

"  Come,  come,  I  must  see  you.  I  must  kneel  at  you? 
feet.  I  must  clasp  your  hands ;  my  joy  ^—  my  love  —  my 
life!" 

"  Room,  room,  there  ! "  cried  a  seneschal.  "  The  em 
peror!" 

"  Dearest  Leonide,"  whispered  a  voice  in  her  ear,  "  I 
resolved  to  see  you  again  to-night,  in  spite  of  your  prohibi 
tion  to  renew  my  suit." 

"  Then  wait  here  beside  me  ;  do  not  leave  me,"  answered 
the  lady,  as  she  recognized  St.  Eustache. 

"  That  will  I  not,  dearest,"  was  the  fervent  reply. 

Napoleon,  with  Josephine  leaning  on  his  arm,  advanced 
through  the  broad  space  cleared  by  the  attendants,  and 
when  he  had  taken  up  a  position  in  the  centre  of  the  hall, 
near  Lioncourt  and  his  bride,  St.  Eustache  and  Lasalle, 
gave  the  signal  for  the  company  to  unmask.  As  they 
obeyed,  and  every  face  was  uncovered,  his  quick  glance 
caught  the  pale  and  handsome  features  of  the  young 
cavalry  colonel. 

"  What ! "  he  exclaimed,  impetuously.  "  Can  the  grave 
give  up  its  dead  ?  Do  our  eyes  deceive  us  ?  Is  this  in 
deed  Lioncourt,  whom  we  left  dead  upon  the  field  of  Aus- 
terlitz  ?  Advance,  man,  and  satisfy  our  doubts." 

Lioncourt  advanced,  and  the  emperor  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"You  are  pale  as  a  ghost,  man;  but  still  you're  flesh 
and  blood.  Give  an  account  of  yourself.  Speak  quickly  ; 
don't  you  see  these  ladies  are  dying  of  curiosity  ?  and,  faith, 
so  I  am  too,"  he  added,  smiling. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  227 

"  Sire,"  said  the  colonel,  "  you  will,  perhaps,  remem 
ber  ordering  my  regiment  in  pursuit  of  the  flying  Rus 
sians?" 

"  Perfectly  well ;  and  they  performed  the  service  gallant 
ly.  Their  rear  was  cut  to  pieces." 

"  St.  Eustache  and  I  rode  side  by  side,"  pursued  tli<? 
colonel. 

"  Here  is  St.  Eustache,"  cried  the  emperor,  beckoning 
the  officer  to  advance. 

"  My  dear  colonel !  "  cried  St.  Eustache,  embracing  his 
old  commander. 

"  Go  on,  colonel,"  cried  the  emperor,  stamping  his  fool 
impatiently. 

"  "We  hung  upon  the  flying  rear  of  the  enemy,  sabring 
every  man  we  overtook.  Faith,  I  hardly  know  what  hap 
pened  afterward* ;'  said  the  colonel,  pausing. 

"  Take  up  the  thread  of  the  story,  St.  Eustache,"  said  the 
emperor ;  "  don't  let  it  break  off  here." 

"  Well,  sire,"  said  St.  Eustache,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
"  as  the  colonel  and  I  were  charging  side  by  side,  cutting 
right  and  left,  separated  from  our  men  by  the  superior 
speed  of  our  horses,  a  Russian  officer  wheeled  and  shot  the 
colonel  from  his  saddle." 

"  That  was  how  it  happened,  Lioncourt,"  said  the  em 
peror.  "  Now  go  on.  Afterwards " 

"  "When  I  came  to  my  senses,  sire,"  resumed  Lioncourt, 
gloomily,  "  I  found  myself  in  the  hands  of  some  Austrian 
peasants.  I  had  been  plundered  of  my  epaulets  and  uni 
form,  and  they  took  me  for  a  common  soldier.  But  they 
carried  me  to  their  cottage,  and  dressed  my  wound,  and 
eventually  I  got  well." 

"  But  where  were  you  wounded,  colonel  ?  "  asked  the  em 
peror. 


228  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

"  A  pistol  ball  had  entered  behind  my  left  shoulder,  and 
came  out  by  my  collar  bone." 

"  Behind  your  left  shoulder ! "  cried  Napoleon.  "•  And 
yet  you  were  facing  the  enemy.  How  was  that  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  the  colonel,  sternly,  "  a  Frenchman,  a 
soldier,  an  officer,  a  disappointed  rival,  took  that  opportuni 
ty  of  assassinating  me,  and  shot  me  with  his  own  hostler 
pistol." 

"  His  name ! "  shouted  the  emperor,  quivering  with  pas 
sion,  "  his  name ;  do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Well.  —  It  was  Lieutenant  Colonel  St.  Eustache ! " 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  St.  Eustache.  His  knees 
knocked  together,  his  eyes  were  fixed,  cold  drops  of  per 
spiration  stood  on  his  forehead.  But  in  all  that  circle  of 
indignant  eyes,  the  detected  criminal  saw  only  the  eagle 
orbs  of  the  emperor,  that  pierced  to  his  very  soul. 

"  Is  this  charge  true  ?"  asked  Napoleon,  quickly,  quiver 
ing  with  one  of  his  tremendous  tornadoes  of  passion. 

St.  Eustache  could  not  answer;  but  he  nodded  his 
head. 

"  Your  sword  ! "  cried  the  emperor. 

Mechanically  the  criminal  drew  his  sabre ;  he  had  thrown 
off  his  domino,  and  now  stood  revealed  in  the  uniform  he 
disgraced,  and  offered  the  hilt  to  the  emperor.  Napoleon 
clutched  it,  and  snapped  the  blade  under  foot.  Then,  tear 
ing  off  his  epaulets,  he  threw  them  on  the  floor,  stamped  on 
them,  and  beckoning  to  an  officer  who  stood  by,  gasped 
out, — 

"  A  guard,  a  guard ! " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  tramp  of  armed  men  was  heard  ID 
the  saloon,  and  the  wretched  culprit  was  removed. 

"  General  Lioncourt,"  said  the  emperor  to  his  recoyered 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  229 

officer,  "  your  new  commission  shall  be  made  out  to-morrow. 
In  the  mean  while  the  lovely  Leonide  shall  teach  you  to 
forget  your  trials." 

The  assemblage  broke  up.  Lioncourt,  his  wife,  and  her 
faithful  brother  retired  to  their  now  happy  home. 

The  next  day  was  fixed  for  the  trial  of  the  guilty  St. 
Eustache  before  a  court  martial  —  a  mere  formal  prelim 
inary  to  his  execution,  for  he  had  confessed  his  crime ;  but 
it  appeared  that  during  the  preceding  night  he  had  man 
aged  to  escape. 

Flying  from  justice,  the  wretched  criminal  reached  one 
of  the  bridges  that  span  the  Seine.  Climbing  to  the  para 
pet,  he  gazed  down  into  the  dark  and  turbid  flood,  now  black 
as  midnight,  that  rolled  beneath  the  yawning  arch.  There 
was  no  star  in  the  sky,  and  here  and  there  only  a  dim  light 
twinkled,  reflected  in  the  muddy  wave.  Daylight  was  be 
ginning  to  streak  the  east  with  sickly  rays.  Soon  the  great 
city  would  be  astir.  Soon  hoarse  voices  would  be  clamor 
ing  for  the  traitor,  the  assassin,  the  dastard,  who,  in  the 
hour  of  victory,  had  raised  his  hand  against  a  brother 
Frenchman.  Soon,  if  he  lingered,  his  ears  would  be  doomed 
to  hear  the  death  penalty  —  soon  the  muskets,  whose  fire 
he  had  so  often  commanded,  would  be  levelled  against  his 
breast.  All  was  lost,  —  all  for  which  he  had  schemed  and 
sinned,  —  the  applause  of  his  countrymen,  the  favor  of  his 
emperor,  the  love  of  Leonide.  At  least,  he  would  disap 
point  Paris  of  a  spectacle.  He  would  die  by  his  own  act. 
A  sudden  spring,  a  heavy  plunge,  a  few  bubbles  breaking 
on  the  black  surface,  and  the  wretched  criminal  was  no 
more ! 

Days  afterwards,  a  couple  of  soldiers,  lounging  into  La 
Morgue,  the  dismal  receptacle  where  bodies  are  exposed 
20  p 


230  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

for  identification,  recognized  in  a  pallid  and  bloated  corpse 
the  remains  of  the  late  lieutenant  colonel  of  the  — th 
hussars. 

Lioncourt  learned  his  fate,  but  it  threw  no  shadow  ovei 
his  bright  and  cloudless  happiness. 


A  KISS  ON  DEMAND. 

IT  was  a  very  peculiar  sound,  something  like  the  pop* 
ping  of  a  champagne  cork,  something  like  the  report  of  a 
small  pocket  pistol,  but  exactly  like  nothing  but  itself.  It 
was  a  kiss. 

A  kiss  implies  two  parties  —  unless  it  be  one  of  those 
symbolical  kisses  produced  by  one  pair  of  lips,  and  wafted 
through  the  air  in  token  of  affection  or  admiration.  But 
this  particular  kiss  was  genuine.  The  parties  in  the  case 
were  Mrs.  Phebe  Mayflower,  the  newly-married  wife  of 
honest  Tom  Mayflower,  gardener  to  Mr.  Augustus  Scatter- 
ly,  and  that  young  gentleman  himself.  Augustus  was  a 
good-hearted,  rattle-brained  spendthrift,  who  had  employed 
the  two  or  three  years  which  had  elapsed  since  his  majority 
in  "  making  ducks  and  drakes  "  of  the  pretty  little  fortune 
left  him  by  his  defunct  sire.  There  was  nothing  very  bad 
about  him,  excepting  his  prodigal  habits,  and  by  these  he 
was  himself  the  severest  sufferer.  Tom,  his  gardener,  had 
been  married  a  few  weeks,  and  Gus,  who  had  failed  to  be 
at  the  wedding,  and  missed  the  opportunity  of  "  saluting 
the  bride,"  took  it  into  his  head  that  it  was  both  proper  and 
polite  that  he  should  do  so  on  the  first  occasion  of  his  meet 
ing  her  subsequently  to  that  interesting  ceremony.  Mrs. 
Mayflower,  the  other  party  interested  in  the  case,  differed 
from  him  in  opinion,  and  the  young  landlord  kissed  her  in 
spite  of  herself.  But  she  was  not  without  a  champion,  foi 

231 


232  A    KISS    ON    DEMAND. 

at  the  precise  moment  when  Scatterly  placed  his  audacioua 
lips  in  contact  with  the  blooming  cheek  of  Mrs.  M.,  Tom 
entered  the  garden  and  beheld  the  outrage. 

"  What  are  you  doing  of,  Mr.  Scatterly  ?  "  he  roared. 

"  0,  nothing,  Tom,  but  asserting  my  rights !  I  was  only 
saluting  the  bride." 

"  Against  my  will,  Tommy,"  said  the  poor  bride,  blush 
ing  like  a  peony,  and  wiping  the  offended  cheek  with  her 
checked  apron. 

"  And  I'll  make  you  pay  dear  for  it,  if  there's  law  in  the 
land,"  said  Tom. 

"  Poh,  poh !  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,"  said  Scat 
terly. 

"  I  don't  mean  to,"  answered  the  gardener,  dryly. 

"  You're  not  seriously  offended  at  the  innocent  liberty  I 
took?" 

«  Yes  I  be,"  said  Tom. 

"  Well,  if  you  view  it  in  that  light,"  answered  Scatterly, 
"  I  shall  feel  bound  to  make  you  reparation.  You  shall 
have  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  when  I'm  married." 

"  That  you  never  will  be." 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  Scatterly,  laughing,  "  the  pros 
pect  of  repayment  seems  rather  distant.  But  who  knows 
what  will  happen  ?  I  may  not  die  a  bachelor,  after  all. 
And  if  I  marry  —  I  repeat  it,  my  dear  fellow  —  you  shall 
have  a  kiss  from  my  wife." 

"  No  he  shan't,"  said  Phebe.  "  He  shall  Jdss  nobody 
but  me." 

"  Yes  he  shall,"  said  Scatterly.  "  Have  you  got  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  Tom  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  answered  the  gardener.  fc  Here  they  be, 
all  handy." 


A    KISS    ON    DEMAND.  233 

Scatterly  sat  down  and  wrote  as  follows  :  — 

«  THE  WILLOWS,  August  — ,  18 — . 
"  Value  received,  I  promise  to  pay  Thomas  Mayflower 
or  order,  one  kiss  on  demand. 

"AUGUSTUS  SCATTERLY." 

"  There  you  have  a  legal  document,"  said  the  young  man, 
as  he  handed  the  paper  to  the  grinning  gardener.  "  And 
now,  good  folks,  good  by." 

"  Mistakes  will  happen  in  the  best  regulated  families," 
and  so  it  chanced  that,  in  the  autumn  of  the  same  year,  our 
bachelor  met  at  the  Springs  a  charming  belle  of  Baltimore, 
to  whom  he  lost  bis  heart  incontinently.  His  person  and 
address  were  attractive,  and  though  his  prodigality  had  im 
paired  his  fortune,  still  a  rich  old  maiden  aunt,  who  doted 
on  him,  Miss  Persimmon  Verjuice,  promised  to  do  the 
handsome  thing  by  him  on  condition  of  his  marrying  and 
settling  quietly  to  the  management  of  his  estate.  So,  un 
der  these  circumstances,  he  proposed,  was  accepted,  and 
married,  and  brought  home  his  beautiful  young  bride  to 
reside  with  Miss  Verjuice  at  the  Willows. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  honeymoon,  one  fine  morning, 
when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scatterly  and  the  maiden  aunt  were 
walking  together  in  the  garden,  Tom  Mayflower,  dressed  in 
his  best,  made  his  appearance,  wearing  a  smile  of  most 
peculiar  meaning. 

"  Julia,"  said  Augustus,  carelessly,  to  his  young  bride, 
"  this  is  my  gardener,  come  to  pay  his  respects  to  you  — 
honest  Torn  Mayflower,  a  very  worthy  fellow,  I  assure 
you." 

Mrs.  Scatterly  nodded  condescendingly  to  the  gardener 
20* 


234  A   KISS    ON   DEMAND. 

who  gazed  upon  her  with  the  open  eyes  of  admiration. 
She  spoke  a  few  words  to  him,  inquired  about  his  wife,  his 
flowers,  &c.,  and  then  turned  away  with  the  aunt,  as  if  to 
terminate  the  interview. 

But  Tom  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  her,  and  he  stood, 
gaping  and  admiring,  and  every  now  and  then  passing  the 
back  of  his  hand  across  his  lips. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my  choice,  Tom  ?  "  asked  Scat- 
lerly,  confidentially. 

"  O,  splendiferous ! "  said  the  gardener. 

"  Roses  and  lilies  in  her  cheeks  —  eh  ?  "  said  Scatterly. 

"  Her  lips  are  as  red  as  carnations,  and  her  eyes  as  blue 
as  larkspurs,"  said  the  gardener. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  your  new  mistress  ;  now  go  to  work, 
Tom." 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Scatterly  ;  but  I  called  to  see  you  on 
business." 

"Well — out  with  it." 

"  Do  you  remember  any  thing  about  saluting  the  bride  ?  " 

"  I  remember  I  paid  the  customary  homage  to  Mrs.  May 
flower." 

"  Well,  don't  you  remember  what  you  promised  in  case 
of  your  marriage  ?  " 

"No!" 

Tom  produced  the  promissory  note  with  a  grin  of  tri 
umph.  "  It's  my  turn  now,  Mr.  Scatterly." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  kiss  Mrs.  Scatterly." 

"  Go  to  the  deuse,  you  rascal ! " 

.  "O,  what  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed  both  the  ladies, 
startled  by  Scatterly's  exclamation,  and  turning  back  to 
learn  the  cause. 


A   KISS    ON    DEMAND.  235 

u  Tins  fellow  has  preferred  a  demand  against  me,"  said 
Scatterly. 

"  A  legal  demand,"  said  the  gardener,  sturdily ;  "  and 
here's  the  dokiment." 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  the  old  maid  aunt.  Tom  handed 
her  the  paper  with  an  air  of  triumph. 

"Ami  right?"  said  he. 

"  Perfectly,  young  man,"  replied  Miss  Verjuice  ;  "  only, 
when  my  nephew  married,  I  assumed  all  his  debts  ;  and  I 
am  now  ready  myself  to  pay  your  claim." 

"  Fairly  trapped,  by  Jupiter ! "  exclaimed  Scatterly,  in 
an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

"  Stop,  stop  ! "  cried  the  unhappy  gardener,  recoiling 
from  the  withered  face,  bearded  lip,  and  sharp  nose  of  the 
ancient  spinster ;  "  I  relinquish  my  claim  —  I'll  write  a 
receipt  in  full." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Scatterly  ;  "you  pressed  me  for  payment 
this  moment  —  and  you  shall  take  your  pay,  or  I  discharge 
you  from  my  employ." 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  the  spinster,  meekly. 

Tom  shuddered  —  crawled  up  to  the  old  lady  —  shut  his 
eyes  —  made  up  a  horrible  face,  and  kissed  her,  while  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  S.  stood  by,  convulsed  with  laughter. 

Five  minutes  afterwards,  Tom  entered  the  gardener's 
lodge,  pale,  weak,  and  trembling,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  Give  me  a  glass  of  water,  Phebe  ! "  he  gasped. 

"  Dear,  what  has  happened  ?  "  asked  the  little  woman. 

"Happened!  why  that  cussed  Miss  Verjuice  is  paying 
Mr.  Scatterly's  debts." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  I  presented  my  promissory  note  —  he  handed  it 
to  her  —  and  —  and  —  0  murder!  —  I've  been  kissing  tht 
old  woman  !  " 


236  A   KISS    ON   DEMAND. 

Phebe  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  pressed  her 
lips  to  his,  and  Thomas  Mayflower  then  and  there  solemnly 
promised  that  he  would  nevermore  have  any  thing  to  dc 
with  KISSES  ON  DEMAND  ! 


THE   EIFLE   SHOT. 

A    MADMAN'S    CONFESSION. 

IT  is  midnight.  The  stealthy  step  of  the  restless  maniac  is 
no  longer  heard  in  the  long,  cheerless  corridors ;  the  ravings  of 
the  incurable  cannot  penetrate  the  deep  walls  of  the  cells  in 
which  their  despair  is  immured ;  even  the  guardians  of  the 
establishment  are  asleep.  Without,  what  silence !  The 
branches  of  the  immemorial  trees  hang  pendulous  and  motion 
less  ;  the  last  railway  train,  with  its  monster  eyes  of  light,  has 
thundered  by.  The  neighboring  city  seems  like  one  vast 
mausoleum,  over  which  the  silent  stars  are  keeping  watch 
and  ward,  and  weeping  silvery  dew  like  angels'  tears.  Only 
crime  and  despair  are  sleepless. 

To  my  task.  They  allow  me  a  lamp.  They  are  not 
afraid  that  the  madman  will  fire  his  living  tomb  and  perish 
in  the  ruins.  Wise  men  of  science !  Cunning  readers  of 
the  human  heart,  your  decrees  are  infallible.  I  am  mad. 
But  perhaps  some  eager  individual  whose  eyes  shall  rest 
upon  these  pages  will  pronounce  a  different  sentence ;  per 
haps  he  may  know  how  to  distinguish  crime  from  madness. 

A  vision  of  my  youth  comes  over  me  —  a  happy  boy 
hood —  a  tree-embowered  home,  babbling  brooks,  fertile 
lawns  —  a  father's  blessing  —  a  mother's  kiss  that  was  both 
joy  and  blessing  —  a  brother's  brave  and  tender  friendship 
—  and  first  love,  that  dearest,  sweetest,  holiest  charm  of  all 

237 


238  THE    RIFLE    SHOT 

O  God !  that  those  things  were  and  are  not !  It  is  agony 
to  recall  them. 

Pass,  too,  the  brief  Elysian  period  of  wedded  love.  Julia 
sleeps  well  in  her  woodland  grave.  I  was  false  to  her 
memory. 

If  my  boyhood  were  happy,  my  manhood  was  a  melan 
choly  one.  A  morbid  temperament,  fostered  by  indulgence, 
dropped  poison  even  in  the  cup  of  bliss.  I  loved  and  I  hated 
with  intensity. 

To  my  widowed  home  came,  after  the  death  of  my  wife, 
my  fair  cousin  Amy,  and  my  young  brother  Norman.  Both 
were  orphans  like  myself.  Amy  was  a  glorious  young 
creature  —  my  antithesis  in  every  respect.  She  was  light 
hearted,  I  was  melancholy ;  she  was  beautiful,  I  ill  favored ; 
she  was  young,  I  past  the  middle  age  of  life,  arrived  at  that 
period  when  philosophers  falsely  tell  us  that  the  pulses  beat 
moderately,  the  blood  flows  temperately,  and  the  heart  is 
tranquil.  Fools !  the  fierce  passions  of  the  soul  belong  not 
to  the  period  of  youth  or  early  manhood.  But  let  my  story 
illustrate  my  position. 

Amy  filled  my  lonely  home  with  mirth  and  music.  She 
rose  with  the  lark,  and  carolled  as  wildly  and  gayly  the 
livelong  day,  till,  like  a  child  tired  of  play,  she  sank  from 
very  exhaustion  on  her  pure  and  peaceful  couch.  Norman 
was  her  playmate.  In  early  manhood  he  retained  the 
buoyant  and  elastic  spirit  of  his  youth.  His  was  one  of 
those  natures  which  never  grow  old.  Have  you  ever  noticed 
one  of  those  aged  men,  whose  fresh  cheeks  and  bright  eyes, 
and  ardent  sympathy  with  all  that  is  youthful  and  animated, 
belie  the  chronicle  of  Time?  Such  might  have  been  the 
age  of  Norman,  had  not But  I  am  anticipating. 

Between  my  cold  and  exhausted  nature  and  Amy's  warm, 
fresh  heart,  you  might  have  supposed  that  there  could  have 


THE   RIFLE    SHOT.  239 

been  no  union.  Yet  she  loved  me  warmly  and  well  —  loved 
me  as  a  friend  and  father.  I  returned  her  pure  and  inno 
cent  affection  with  a  fierce  passion.  I  longed  to  possess 
her.  The  memory  of  her  I  had  loved  and  lost  was  but  as 
the  breath  on  the  surface  of  a  steel  mirror,  which  heat  dis 
places  and  obliterates. 

I  was  not  long  in  perceiving  the  exact  state  of  her  feel 
ings  towards  me,  and  with  that  knowledge  came  the  instan 
taneous  conviction  of  her  fondness  for  my  brother,  so  well 
calculated  to  inspire  a  young  girl's  love.  I  watched  them 
with  the  keen  and  angry  eyes  of  jealousy.  I  followed  them 
in  their  walks ;  I  played  the  eavesdropper,  and  caught  up 
the  words  of  their  innocent  conversation,  endeavoring  to 
turn  them  to  their  disadvantage.  By  degrees  I  came  to 
hate  Norman  ;  and  what  equals  in  intensity  a  brother's  hate  ? 
It  surpasses  the  hate  of  woman. 

In  the  insanity  of  my  passion  —  then  I  was  insane  in 
deed  —  I  sought  to  rival  my  brother  in  all  those  things  in 
which  he  was  my  superior.  He  was  fond  of  field  sports, 
and  a  master  of  all  athletic  exercises  ;  he  was  fond  of  bring 
ing  home  the  trophies  of  his  manly  skill  and  displaying 
them  in  tile  eyes  of  his  mistress.  He  could  bring  down  the 
hawk  from  the  clouds,  or  arrest  the  career  of  the  deer  in 
full  spring.  I  practised  shooting,  and  failed  miserably. 
His  good-natured  smile  at  my  maladroitness  I  treasured  up 
as  a  deadly  wrong.  While  he  rode  fearlessly,  I  trembled 
at  the  thought  of  a  leap.  He  danced  gracefully  and  lightly ; 
my  awkward  attempts  at  waltzing  made  both  Amy  and  her 
lover  smile. 

But  in  mental  accomplishments  I  was  the  superior  of 
Norman  ;  and  in  my  capacity  of  teacher  both  to  Amy  and 
my  brother,  I  had  ample  opportunity  of  displaying  the 
powers  of  my  mind. 


240  THE   RIFLE    SHOT. 

Amy  was  gifted  with  quick  intelligence ;  Norman  was  a 
dull  scholar.  What  pleasure  I  took  in  humbling  him  in 
the  eyes  of  his  mistress  !  what  asperity  and  scorn  I  threw 
into  my  pedantic  rebukes  !  Norman  was  astonished  and 
wounded  at  my  manner.  As  he  was  in  a  good  degree  de 
pendent  on  me,  as  he  owed  to  me  his  nurture,  sustenance, 
and  training,  I  took  full  advantage  of  our  relative  position. 
With  well-feigned  earnestness  and  sorrow,  I  exaggerated 
my  pecuniary  embarrassments,  and  pointed  out  to  him  the 
necessity  of  his  providing  for  himself,  suggesting,  with  tears 
in  my  eyes,  that  he  must  adopt  some  servile  trade  or  call 
ing,  as  his  melancholy  deficiencies  precluded  the  possibility 
of  his  success  in  any  other  line. 

Norman  had  little  care  for  money.  Before  the  fatal  ad 
vent  of  Amy,  I  had  supplied  him  freely  with  the  means  of 
gratifying  his  tastes ;  but  when  I  found  that  he  expended 
his  allowance  in  presents  for  his  fair  cousin,  on  the  plea  of 
hard  necessity  I  restricted  his  supplies,  and  finally  limited 
him  to  a  pittance,  which  only  a  feeble  regard  for  the  mem 
ory  of  our  indulgent  mother  forced  me  to  grant. 

One  day  —  I  remember  it  well — he  came  to  me  with 
]oy  depicted  in  his  countenance,  and  displayed  a  recent  pur 
chase,  the  fruits  of  his  forced  economy.  It  was  a  fine  rifle  ; 
and  he  urged  me  and  Amy  to  come  and  see  him  make  a 
trial  of  the  weapon.  I  rebuked  him  for  his  extravagance 
with  a  sharpness  which  brought  tears  into  his  eyes  —  but  I 
consented  to  witness  the  trial.  His  first  shot  centred  the 
target.  He  loaded  again,  and  handed  the  weapon  to  me. 
My  bullet  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Norman's  second 
shot  lapped  his  first.  Mine  was  again  wide  of  the  mark. 
Norman  laughed  thoughtlessly.  Amy  looked  grave,  for 
with  a  woman's  quickness  she  had  guessed  at  the  truth  of 
my  feelings.  I  cut  the  scene  short  by  summoning  both  to 


THE   RIFLE    SHOT.  241 

their  studies.  That  morning  Norman,  whose  thoughts 
were  with  his  rifle,  blundered  sadly  in  his  mathematics,  and 
I  rebuked  him  with  more  than  my  usual  asperity. 

Be  it  understood  that  my  character  stood  high  with  the 
world.  I  was  not  undistinguished  in  public  life,  and  had 
the  rare  good  fortune  to  conciliate  both  parties.  I  was  a 
working  man  in  many  charitable  and  philanthropic  so 
cieties.  I  was  a  member  of  a  church,  and  looked  up  to 
as  a  model  of  piety. .  As  a  husband  and  brother,  I  was  held 
up  as  an  example.  I  had  so  large  a  capital  of  character, 
I  could  deal  in  crime  to  an  unlimited  amount. 

Some  days  after  the  occurrence  just  related,  I  was  alone 
with  my  brother  in  the  library. 

"  Come,  Norman,"  said  I,  "  leave  those  stupid  books. 
Study  is  a  poor  business  for  a  young  free  heart  like  yours. 
Leave  books  for  old  age  and  the  rheumatism." 

Norman  sprang  up  joyously.  "  With  all  my  heart,  broth 
er  ;  I'm  with  you  for  a  gallop  or  a  ramble." 

"  I'm  but  a  poor  horseman,  and  an  indifferent  walker,"  I 
answered.  "  What  do  you  say  to  a  little  rifle  practice  ?  I 
should  like  to  try  to  mend  my  luck." 

Norman's  rifle  was  in  his  hand  in  a  moment,  and  whis 
tling  his  favorite  spaniel,  he  sallied  forth  with  me  into  the 
bright,  sunshiny  autumnal  day.  We  hied  to  a  hollow  in 
the  woods  where  he  had  set  up  a  target.  He  made  the 
first  shot  —  a  splendid  one  — and  then  reloaded  the  rifle. 

"  Take  care,"  said  he,  "  how  you  handle  the  trigger ;  you 
know  the  lock  is  an  easy  one  —  I  am  going  to  have  it  al 
tered."  And  he  went  forward  to  set  the  target  firmei  in 
the  ground,  as  his  shot  had  shaken  it. 

He  was  twenty  paces  off — his  back  turned  towards  me. 
I  lifted  the  rifle,  and  covered  him  with  both  sights.  It  was 
the  work  of  a  moment.  My  hand  touched  the  trigger.  A 
21 


242  THE   RIFLE    SHOT. 

sharp  report  followed  —  the  puff  of  blue  smoke  s^yrled  up 
ward  —  and  my  brother  fell  headlong  to  the  ground.  The 
bullet  had  gone  crashing  through  his  skull.  He  never 
moved. 

A  revulsion  of  feeling  instantly  followed.  All  the  love 
of  former  years  —  all  the  tender  passages  of  our  boyhood  — 
rushed  through  my  brain  in  an  instant.  I  flew  to  him  and 
raised  him  from  the  earth.  At  sight  of  his  pale  face, 
beautiful  in  death,  of  his  long  bright  locks  dabbled  in  warm 
blood,  I  shrieked  in  despair.  A  mother  bewailing  her  first 
born  could  not  have  felt  her  loss  more  keenly,  or  mourned 
it  more  wildly.  Two  or  three  woodmen  rushed  to  the  spot. 
They  saw,  as  they  supposed,  the  story  at  a  glance.  One 
of  those  accidents  so  common  to  the  careless  use  of  firearms 

—  and  I  was  proverbially  unacquainted  with  their  use  — 
had  produced  the  catastrophe.     We  were  borne  home,  for 
I  had  fainted,  and  was  as  cold  and  lifeless  as  my  victim. 
What  passed  during  a  day  or  two  I  scarcely  remember, 
Something  of  strange  people  in  the  house  —  of  disconnect 
ed  words  of  sympathy  —  of  a  coffin  —  a  funeral  —  a  pil 
grimage  to  the  woodland  cemetery,  where  my  parents  and 
my  wife  slept  —  are  all  the  memory  records  of  those  days. 

Then  I  resumed  the  full  possession  of  my  senses.  Amy's 
pale  face  and  shadowy  form  were  all  that  were  left  of  her 

—  my  brother's  seat  at  the   table   and   the  fireside  were 
empty.     But  his   clothes,  his  picture,  his  riding  cap  and 
spurs,  a  thousand  trifles  scattered  round,  called  up  his  dread 
image  every  day  to  the  fratricide.     His  dog  left  the  house 
every  morning,  and  came  not  back  till  evening.     One  day 
he  was  found  dead  in  the  graveyard  where  his  master  had 
been  laid. 

Amy  clung  to  me  with  despairing  love.  She  would  talk 
of  the  lost  one.  She  would  find  every  day  in  me  some 


THE    RIFLE    SHOT.  243 

resemblance  to  him.  Perhaps  she  would  even  'nave  wedded 
in  me  the  memory  of  the  departed.  But  that  thought  was 
too  horrible.  I  loved  her  no  longer. 

Friends  came  to  condole  with  me.  Every  word  of  sym 
pathy  was  a  barbed  arrow.  I  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
Conscience  stung  me  not  to  madness,  but  confession.  1 
repelled  sympathy  —  I  solicited  denunciation.  I  told  them 
I  was  my  brother's  murderer.  I  forced  my  confession  on 
every  one  who  would  hear  it.  Then  it  became  rumored 
about  that  my  "  fine  mind,"  so  they  phrased  it,  had  given 
way  beneath  the  weight  of  sorrow.  I  was  regarded  with 
fear.  A  physician  of  my  acquaintance  made  me  a  friendly 
visit,  and  shook  his  head  when  he  heard  my  story.  One 
day  this  gentleman  invited  me  to  ride  in  his  carriage.  He 
left  me  here.  Society  believes  me  mad  —  that  I  am  not,  is 
to  me  a  miracle. 

0  ye  wise  ones  of  the  earth,  — legislators  of  the  land, 
—  would  ye  avenge  the  blood  that  has  been  spilt  by  vio 
lence  on  the  ruthless  murderer,  would  ye  inflict  punishment 
upon  him,  spare  and  slay  him  not.  Take  down  the  gal 
lows,  and  in  its  place  erect  your  prisons  doubly  strong,  for 
there,  within  their  ever-during  walls  of  granite,  lies  the 
hell  of  the  villain  who  has  robbed  his  brother  of  his  life. 


THE  WATER  CURE 

SINCE  the  introduction  of  the  limpid  waters  of  Lake  Co- 
chituate  into  the  goodly  city  of  Boston,  the  water  commis 
sioners  have  had  their  hands  full  of  business,  for  the  various 
accidents  incidental  to  the  commencement  of  the  service, 
the  bursting  of  pipes,  the  demands  for  payments  of  dama 
ges,  applications  for  accommodations,  &c.,  have  rendered 
the  offices  no  sinecures. 

The  other  day,  a  poorly  but  decently-dressed  Irish  wo 
man  entered  the  office  of  the  commissioners  on  Washington 
Street,  and  walked  up  to  the  head  clerk. 

"  Well,  my  good  woman,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  the  dochthor." 

"  The  doctor  !  what  doctor  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  his  name,  and  me  niver  seeing 
him  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  water  commissioner's  office,  my  good  wo 
man." 

"Ah  !  and  sure  I've  hard  of  the  wonderful  cures  you've 
made.  If  my  poor  Teddy  had  been  alive  at  this  moment, 
he  wouldn't  have  been  dead  the  day." 

"  O,  you  want  the  water  brought  into  your  house." 

"  Sure  and  I'd  like  that  same." 
m  "  Well,  where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"Broad  Strate  —  near  Purchase   Strate  —  it's  a  small 

244 


THE    WATER    CURE.  245 

cellar  I  have  to  myself.     I  used  to  take  boarders  ;  but  it's 
poorly  I  am,  and  I  can't  work  as  I  used  to,  dochthor." 

"  Well,  haven't  you  got  any  water  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  bit.  I  have  to  take  my  pail  and  go  to  Bread 
Strate  for  it." 

"  And  the  water  doesn't  come  into  your  cellar  ?  " 

"  Sure  it  comes  into  me  cellar  sometimes  —  but  it's  as 
salt  as  brine ;  it's  the  say  water.  I've  tried  to  drink  it,  but 
it  made  me  sick.  0,  I'm  bad,  dochthor,  dear  ;  if  you  think 
the  water'll  cure  me,  tell  me  where  I  can  get  it." 

"  You've  got  the  pipes  down  your  way  ?  " 

"  I've  got  the  pipes,  dochthor,  dear  —  but  sorrow  a  bit 
of  tibaccy.  Do  you  think  smoking  is  good  for  the  rheu- 
matiz  ?  " 

"  There's  some  mistake  here,"  said  the  clerk  ;  "  what's 
that  you've  got  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"  They  tould  me  to  bring  this  bit  ov  pasteboord  here, 
sure." 

The  cbrk  took  it.  It  was  a  dispensary  ticket.  He  ex 
plained  tlie  mistake,  and  told  the  applicant  where  she  should 
go  to  obtain  medicine  and  advice. 

"  No,  dochthor,  dear  —  it's  no  mistake  —  it's  the  water 
cure  I'm  after.  Sure  it's  the  blissid  wather  that  saves  us. 
There  was  Pat  Murphy  that  brak  his  leg  when  he  fell  with 
a  hod  of  bricks  aff  the  ladder  in  Say  Strate,  and  they  put 
a  bit  of  wet  rag  round  it,  and  the  next  wake  he  was  dancing 
a  jig  to  the  chune  of  Paddy  Rafferty,  at  the  ball  given  by 
the  Social  Burial  Society.  And  there  was  my  sister  Molly's 
old  man,  Phelim,  that  was  took  bad  wid  the  fever  —  and 
he  drank  walth  of  whiskey,  but  it  never  did  him  a  bit  of 
good  —  but  when  he  lift  off  the  whiskey,  and  drank  nothin 
but  wather,  he  came  round  in  a  wake.  O,  dochthor,  let  ma 
have  the  blissid  water." 

21*  Q 


246  THE    WATER    CURE. 

"  You  must  see  your  landlord  about  that." 

"  You  wouldn't  sind  me  to  him,  dochthor." 

"I'm  no  doctor,  good  woman,"  said  the  clerk,  now 
thoroughly  annoyed,  "  and  you've  come  to  the  wrong  shop, 
as  I  told  you." 

"  How  do  you  use  the  water  ?  "  inquired  the  woman. 

"Why,  you  turn  the  cock  and  let  it  on — in  this  way," 
Baid  the  clerk,  letting  a  little  Cochituate  into  a  basin. 
"  There,  go  along  now,  and  go  to  the  doctor's,  as  I  have 
directed  you." 

"  Sorrow  a  dochthor  I  go  to  but  the  water  dochthor,  this 
blissid  day,"  said  the  woman,  and  she  left  the  office. 

She  repaired  to  her  cellar  in  no  enviable  frame  of  mind. 
She  was  sick  and  discouraged,  and  labored  under  the  im 
pression  that  she  had  been  to  the  right  place,  but  they  had 
imposed  upon  her,  from  an  unwillingness  to  aid  her.  In 
the  mean  while,  however,  during  her  absence,  a  service  pipe 
had  been  admitted  into  her  premises  by  the  landlord,  though 
she  was  not  aware  of  the  fact.  She  became  acquainted 
with  it  soon  enough,  however.  The  next  morning,  about 
four  o'clock,  as  she  lay  on  the  floor,  bemoaning  her  hard 
fate  and  the  neglect  of  the  "  dochthor,"  she  heard  a  rush 
ing  noise.  The  water  pipe  had  burst,  and  a  stream,  like  a 
fountain,  was  now  steadily  falling  into  the  cellar. 

"  Bless  their  hearts  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  "  they 
haven't  forgotten  the  poor.  The  dochthor's  sent  the  water 
at  last  —  and  I  must  lie  still  and  take  it." 

The  first  shock  of  the  invading  flood  was  a  severe  one. 

"  MiKia  murther  ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  how  could  it  is  ! 
Dochthor,  dear,  couldn't  ye  have  let  me  had  it  a  thrifle 
warmer  ?  " 

The  water  continued  to  pour  in,  and  she  was  thoroughly 
soaked.  Under  the  belief  that  the  doctor  must  be  some 
where  about,  superintending  the  operation,  but  keeping 


THE    WATER    CURE.  247 

himself  out  of  sight  from  motives  of  delicacy,  she  continued 
to  address  him. 

"  There  !  dochthor,  dear.  Blessings  on  ye  !  That'll  do 
for  this  time.  It's  could  I  am  !  Stop  it,  dochthor !  I've 
had  enough !  It's  too  good  for  the  likes  of  me.  I  fale 
betther,  dochthor ;  I  won't  throuble  ye  more,  dochthor ; 
many  thanks  to  ye,  dochthor  !  do  ye  hear  ?  It's  drowning 
I  am ! " 

By  this  time  she  had  risen,  and  was  standing  ankle  deep 
in  water.  As  the  element  was  still  rising,  and  the  "  doch 
thor"  failed  to  make  his  appearance,  the  poor  woman 
climbed  upon  a  stool,  which  was  soon  insulated  by  the  tide. 
From  this  she  managed  to  escape  in  a  large  bread  trough, 
and  ferried  herself  over  to  a  shelf,  where  she  lay  in  com 
parative  safety,  watching  the  rising  of  the  waters. 

What  would  have  been  her  fate,  if  she  had  remained 
alone,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  After  some  time  the  noise 
of  waters  alarmed  the  neighbors ;  they  came  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  and  finally  succeeded  in  rescuing  the  tenant 
of  the  cellar  from  the  threatened  deluge.  She  was  com 
fortably  cared  for  by  a  fellow-countrywoman,  and  a  regular 
dispensary  physician  sent  for.  Wonderful  to  relate,  the 
shock  of  the  cold  bath  had  accomplished  one  of  those  acci 
dental  cures,  of  which  many  are  recorded  in  the  history  of 
rheumatic  disorders ;  and  in  a  few  days,  the  sufferer  was 
on  her  legs  again.  Furthermore,  her  sickness  had  proved 
the  means  of  interesting  several  benevolent  individuals  in 
her  fate,  and  by  their  assistance  she  was  established  in  a 
little  shop,  where  she  is  making  an  honest  penny,  and  laying 
by  something  against  a  rainy  day.  This  she  all  attributes 
to  the  "  blissid  wather,"  and,  in  her  veneration  for  the  ele 
ment,  has  totally  abjured  whiskey,  and  signed  the  pledge 
an  act  which  gives  assurance  of  her  future  fortune. 


THE  COSSACK. 

CHAPTER   I. 

I'd  give 

The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
It  o'er  once  more,  and  be  a  page, 
The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 
Of  one  soft  heart  and  his  own  sword 

MAZEPFA. 

COUNT  WILLNITZ  was  striding  to  and  fro  in  the  old 
hall  of  his  ancestral  castle,  in  the  heart  of  Lithuania. 
Through  the  high  and  narrow  Gothic  windows  the  light 
fell  dimly  into  the  cold  apartment,  just  glancing  on  the 
massive  pillars,  and  bringing  into  faint  relief  the  dusty 
banners  and  old  trophies  of  arms  that  hung  along  the  walls, 
for  the  wintry  day  was  near  its  close.  The  count  was  a 
dark-browed,  stern-featured  man.  His  cold,  gray  eyes 
were  sunken  in  their  orbits ;  and  deep  lines  were  drawn 
about  his  mouth,  as  if  some  secret  grief  were  gnawing  at 
his  vitals.  And,  indeed,  good  cause  existed  for  his  sorrow ; 
for,  but  a  few  days  previously,  he  had  lost  his  wife.  They 
had  buried  the  countess  at  midnight,  as  was  the  custom  of 
the  family,  in  the  old,  ancestral  vault  of  the  castle.  Vas 
sal  and  serf  had  waved  their  torches  over  the  black  throat 
of  the  grave,  and  the  wail  of  women  had  gone  up  through 
the  rocky  arches.  Still  the  count  had  been  seen  to  shed 
no  tear.  An  old  warrior,  schooled  in  the  stern  academy  of 

248 


THE    COSSACK.  249 

military  life,  he  had  early  learned  to  conquer  his  emotions ; 
indeed,  there  were  those  who  said  that  nature,  in  moulding 
his  aristocratic  form,  had  forgotten  to  provide  it  with  a 
heart ;  and  this  legend  found  facile  credence  with  the  cow 
ering  serfs  who  owned  his  sway,  and  the  ill-paid  soldiers 
who  followed  his  banner.  The  last  male  descendant  of  a 
long  and  noble  line,  he  was  ill  able  to  maintain  the  splen 
dor  of  his  family  name  ;  for  his  dominions  had  been  "  cur 
tailed  of  their  fair  proportion,"  and  his  finances  were  in  a 
disordered  state. 

As,  like  Hardicanute  in  the  old  ballad, 

"  Stately  strode  he  east  the  wa', 
And  stately  strode  he  west," 

there  entered  a  figure  almost  as  grim  and  stern  as  himself. 
This  was  an  old  woman  who  now  filled  the  office  of  house 
keeper,  having  succeeded  to  full  sway  on  the  death  of  the 
countess,  the  young  daughter  of  the  count  being  unable  or 
unwilling  to  assume  any  care  in  the  household. 

u  Well,  dame,"  said  the  count,  pausing  in  his  walk,  and 
confronting  the  old  woman,  "how  goes  it  with  you,  and 
how  with  Alvina?  Still  sorrowing  over  her  mother's 
death?" 

"  The  tears  of  a  maiden  are  like  the  dews  in  the  morn 
ing,  count,"  replied  the  old  woman.  "  The  first  sunbeam 
dries  them  up." 

"  And  what  ray  of  joy  can  penetrate  the  dismal  hole  ?  " 
asked  the  count. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  golden  bracelet  you  gave  your 
lady  daughter  on  her  wedding  day?"  inquired  the  old 
woman,  fixing  her  keen,  gray  eye  on  her  master's  face  as 
she  spoke. 

"  Ay,  well,"  replied  the  count ;  "  golden  gifts  are  not  so 


350  THE    COSSACK. 

easily  obtained,  of  late,  that  I  should  forget  their  bestowal 
But  what  of  the  bavvble  ?  " 

"  I  saw  it  in  the  hands  of  the  page  Alexis,  when  he 
thought  himself  unobserved." 

"  How !  "  cried  the  count,  his  cheek  first  reddening,  and 
then  becoming  deadly  pale  with  anger  ;  "  is  the  blood  of 
the  gitano  asserting  its  claim  ?  Has  he  begun  to  pilfer ': 
The  dog  shall  hang  from  the  highest  battlement  of  tha 
castle ! " 

"  May  it  not  have  been  a  free  gift,  sir  count  ?  "  suggested 
the  hideous  hag. 

"  A  free  gift !  What  mean  you  ?  A  love  token  ?  Ha ! 
dare  you  insinuate  ?  And  yet  her  blood  is " 

"  Hush !  walls  have  sometimes  ears,"  said  the  old  wo 
man,  looking  cautiously  around.  "  The  gypsy  child  you 
picked  up  in  the  forest  is  now  almost  a  man ;  your  daughter 
is  a  woman.  The  page  is  beautiful ;  they  have  been 
thrown  much  together.  Alvina  is  lonely,  romantic " 

"  Enough,  enough ! "  said  the  count,  stamping  his  foot. 

"  I  will  watch  him.     If  your  suspicions  be  correct " 

He  paused,  and  added  between  his  clinched  teeth,  "  I  shall 
know  how  to  punish  the  daring  of  the  dog.     Away  !  " 

The  old  woman  hobbled  away,  rubbing  her  skinny  hands 
together,  and  chuckling  at  the  prospect  of  having  her 
hatred  of  the  young  countess  and  the  page,  both  of  whom 
had  excited  her  malevolence,  speedily  gratified. 

Count  Willnitz  was  on  the  eve  of  a  journey  to  Paris 
with  his  daughter.  They  were  to  start  in  a  day  or  two. 
This  circumstance  brought  on  the  adventure  we  shall 
speedily  relate. 

Between  Alexis,  the  beautiful  page  whom  the  late 
countess  had  found  and  fancied  among  a  wandering  Bo 
hemian  horde,  and  the  high-born  daughter  of  the  feudal 


THE    COSSACK.  251 

house,  an  attachment  had  sprung  up,  nurtured  by  the 
isolation  in  which  they  lived,  and  the  romantic  character 
and  youth  of  the  parties.  About  to  be  separated  from  his 
mistress  for  a  long  time,  the  page  had  implored  her  to 
grant  him  an  interview,  and  the  lovers  met  in  an  apart 
ment  joining  the  suite  of  rooms  appropriated  to  the  coun 
tess,  and  where  they  were  little  likely  to  be  intruded  upon. 
In  the  innocence  of  their  hearts,  they  had  not  dreamed 
that  their  looks  and  movements  had  been  watched,  and 
they  gave  themselves  up  to  the  happiness  of  unrestrained 
converse.  But  at  the  moment  when  the  joy  of  Alexis 
seemed  purest  and  brightest,  the  gathering  thunder  cloud 
was  overhanging  him.  At  the  moment  when,  sealing  his 
pledge  of  eternal  fidelity  and  memory  in  absence,  he  trem 
blingly  printed  a  first  and  holy  kiss  upon  the  blushing 
cheek  of  Alvina,  an  iron  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder, 
and,  torn  ruthlessly  from  the  spot,  he  was  dashed  against 
the  wall,  while  a  terrible  voice  exclaimed,  — 

"  Dog,  you  shall  reckon  with  me  for  this !  " 

Alvina  threw  herself  at  her  father's  feet. 

"  Pardon  —  pardon  for  Alexis,  father  !  I  alone  am  to 
blame." 

"  Rise  !  rise ! "  thundered  the  count.  "  Art  thou  not 
sufficiently  humiliated?  Dare  to  breathe  a  word  in  his 
favor,  and  it  shall  go  hard  with  thy  minion.  Punishment 
thou  canst  not  avert ;  say  but  a  word,  and  that  punishment 
becomes  death ;  for  he  is  mine,  soul  and  body,  to  have  and 
to  hold,  to  head  or  to  hang  —  my  vassal,  my  slave  !  What 
ho,  there ! " 

As  he  stamped  his  foot,  a  throng  of  attendants  poured 
into  the  room. 

"  Search  me  that  fellow ! "  cried  the  count,  pointing  with 
his  finger  to  Alexis. 


252  THE    COSSACK. 

A  dozen  officers'  hands  examined  the  person  of  Alexis 
one  of  them,  more  eager  than  the  rest,  discovered  a  golden 
bracelet,  and  brought  it  to  the  count. 

"  Ha  ! "  cried  the  count,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  trinket ; 
"  truly  do  I  recognize  this  bawble.  Speak,  dog  !  when  got'st 
thou  this?" 

Alvina  was  about  to  speak,  and  acknowledge  that  she 
had  bestowed  it ;  but  before  she  could  utter  a  syllable,  the 
page  exclaimed,  — 

"  I  confess  all  —  I  stole  it." 

"  Enough  ! "  cried  the  count.  "  Daughter,  retire  to  your 
apartment." 

"  Father  !  "  cried  the  wretched  girl,  wringing  her  hands. 

"  Silence,  countess ! "  cried  the  count,  with  terrific  em 
phasis.  "  Remember  that  I  wield  the  power  of  life  and 
death!" 

Casting  one  look  of  mute  agony  at  the  undaunted  page, 
the  hapless  lady  retired  from  the  room. 

"  Zabitzki,"  said  the  count,  addressing  the  foremost  of 
his  attendants,  "  take  me  this  thieving  dog  into  the  court 
yard,  and  lay  fifty  stripes  upon  his  back.  Then  bear  him 
to  the  dungeon  in  the  eastern  turret  that  overlooks  the 
moat ;  there  keep  him  till  you  learn  my  further  pleasure." 

The  page  was  brave  as  steel.  His  cheek  did  not  blanch, 
nor  did  his  heart  quail,  as  he  heard  the  dreadful  sentence. 
His  lips  uttered  no  unmanly  entreaty  for  forgiveness  ;  but, 
folding  his  arms,  and  drawing  up  his  elegant  figure  to  its 
full  height,  he  fixed  his  eagle  eye  upon  the  count,  with  a 
glance  full  of  bitter  hatred  and  mortal  defiance.  And 
afterwards,  when  submitting  to  the  ignominious  punish 
ment,  with  his  flesh  lacerated  by  the  scourge,  no  groan 
escaped  his  lips  that  might  reach  the  listening  ear  of  Al« 
vina.  He  bore  it  all  with  Spartan  firmness. 


THE    COSSACK.  25<J 

Midnight  had  struck  when  the  young  countess,  throud- 
ed  in  a  cloak,  and  bearing  a  key  which  she  had  purchased 
by  its  weight  in  gold,  ascended  to  the  eastern  turret,  re 
solved  to  liberate  the  prisoner.  The  door  swung  heavily 
back  on  its  rusted  hinges  as  she  cautiously  entered  the  dun 
geon.  Drawing  back  the  slide  from  a  lantern  she  carried 
in  her  left  hand,  she  threw  its  blaze  before  her,  calling  out 
at  the  same  time,  "  Alexis ! " 

No  voice  responded. 

"They  have  murdered  him! "she  murmured,  as  she 
rushed  forward  and  glanced  wildly  around  her. 

The  cell  was  empty.  She  sprang  to  the  grated  window. 
The  bars  had  been  sawn  through  and  wrenched  apart,  with 
the  exception  of  one,  from  which  dangled  a  rope  made  of 
fragments  of  linen  and  blanket  twisted  and  knotted  to 
gether.  Had  Alexis  escaped,  or  perished  in  the  attempt  ? 
The  moat  was  deep  and  broad ;  but  the  page  was  a  good 
swimmer  and  a  good  climber,  and  his  heart  was  above  all 
proof.  There  was  little  doubt  in  the  mind  of  his  mistress 
that  fortune  had  favored  him.  Sinking  on  her  knees,  she 
gave  utterance  to  a  fervent  thanksgiving  to  the  almighty 
Power  which  had  protected  the  hapless  boy,  and  then  re 
tired  to  her  couch  to  weep  in  secret.  The  next  day  the 
castle  rang  with  the  escape  of  Alexis.  Messengers  were 
gent  out  in  pursuit  of  him  in  every  direction ;  but  a  fall  of 
snow  in  the  latter  part  of  the  night  prevented  the  possibil 
ity  of  tracking  him,  and  even  the  dogs  that  the  count  put 
upon  the  scent  were  completely  baffled.  The  next  day  the 
count  and  his  daughter  started  on  their  journey. 
22 


254  THE    COSSACK. 


CHAPTER  H. 

For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even ; 

And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 

There  never  yet  was  human  power 
"Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven, 

The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 

Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 

BYRON. 

YEARS  had  passed  away.  The  storm  of  war  had  rolled 
over  the  country,  and  the  white  eagle  of  Poland  had  ceased 
to  wave  over  an  independent  land.  Count  Willnitz  and 
his  daughter  had  returned  to  the  old  castle;  the  former 
stern  and  harsh  as  ever,  the  latter  completely  in  the  power 
of  an  inexorable  master.  She  had  received  no  tidings  of 
Alexis,  and  had  given  him  up  as  lost  to  her  forever.  Her 
father,  straightened  in  his  circumstances  and  menaced  with 
ruin,  had  secured  relief  and  safety  by  pledging  his  daugh 
ter's  hand  to  a  wealthy  nobleman,  Count  Radetsky,  who 
was  now  in  the  castle  awaiting  the  fulfilment  of  the  bar 
gain. 

"  Go,  my  child,"  said  the  count,  with  more  gentleness 
than  he  usually  manifested  in  his  manner.  "  You  must 
prepare  yourself  for  the  altar." 

"  Father,"  said  the  young  girl,  earnestly,  "  does  he  know 
that  I  love  him  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  him  all,  Alvina." 

"  And  yet  he  is  willing  to  wed  me  ! "  She  raised  her 
eyes  to  heaven,  rose,  and  slowly  retired  to  her  room. 

Louisa,  the  old  woman  presented  in  the  first  scene  of  our 
tale,  decked  the  unfortunate  girl  in  her  bridal  robes,  and 
went  with  her  to  the  chapel,  where  her  father  and  Radet- 
eky  awaited  her.  An  old  priest  mumbled  over  the  cere* 


THE    COSSACK.  255 

mony,  and  joined  the  hands  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 
The  witnesses  were  few  —  only  the  vassals  of  the  count ; 
and  no  attempt  at  festivity  preceded  or  followed  the  dismal 
ceremony. 

Alvina  retired  to  her  chamber  when  it  was  over,  prom 
ising  to  join  her  bridegroom  at  the  table  in  a  few  moments. 
The  housekeeper  accompanied  her. 

"I  give  you  joy,  Countess  Radetsky,"  said  the  old 
woman. 

"  I  sorely  need  it,"  was  the  bitter  answer.  "  I  have  sac 
rificed  myself  to  the  duty  I  owe  my  sole  surviving  parent." 

The  old  woman  rubbed  her  hands  and  chuckled  as  she 
noted  the  tone  of  anguish  in  which  these  words  were 
uttered. 

"  I  can  now  speak  out,"  she  said.  "  After  long  years  of 
silence,  the  seal  is  removed  from  my  lips.  I  can  now  re 
pay  your  childish  scorn,  and  bitter  jests,  by  a  bitterer 
jest  than  any  you  have  yet  dreamed  of.  Countess  Ra 
detsky " 

"  Spare  me  that  name,"  said  the  countess. 

"  Nay,  sweet,  it  is  one  you  will  bear  through  life,"  said 
the  hag,  "  and  you  had  better  accustom  yourself  early  to 
its  sound.  Know,  then,  my  sweet  lady,  that  the  count,  my 
master,  had  no  claims  on  your  obedience." 

"How?" 

"  He  is  a  childless  man.  He  found  you  an  abandoned 
orphan.  Struck  with  your  beauty,  he  brought  you  to  his 
lady,  and,  though  they  loved  you  not,  they  adopted  you, 
with  a  view  to  making  your  charms  useful  to  them  when 
you  should  have  grown  up.  The  count  has  amply  paid 
himself  to-day  for  all  the  expense  and  trouble  you  have 
put  him  to.  He  has  sold  you  to  an  eager  suitor  for  a  good 
round  price.  Ha,  ha  ! " 


256  THE    COSSACK. 

"  And  you  knew  this,  and  never  ttid  me ! "  cried  the 
hapless  girl. 

"  I  was  bound  by  an  oath  not  to  reveal  the  secret  till 
you  were  married.  And  I  did  not  love  you  enough  to  per 
jure  myself." 

"  Wretch  —  miserable  wretch ! "  cried  Alvina.  "  Alas ! 
to  what  a  fate  have  I  been  doomed !  Ah !  why  did  they 
not  let  me  rather  perish  than  rear  me  to  this  doom  ?  My 
heart  is  given  to  Alexis  —  my  hand  to  Radetsky  ! " 

"  Go  down,  sweet,  to  your  bridegroom,"  said  the  old  wo 
man,  who  was  totally  deaf  to  her  complaints,  "  or  he  will 
seek  you  here." 

Alvina  descended  to  the  banquet  hall,  uncertain  what 
course  to  pursue.  Escape  appeared  impossible,  and  what 
little  she  knew  of  Radetsky  convinced  her  that  he  was  as 
pitiless  and  base  as  her  reputed  father.  She  sank  into  a 
seat,  pale,  inanimate,  and  despairing. 

At  that  moment,  ere  any  one  present  could  say  a  word, 
a  man,  white  with  terror,  rushed  into  the  hall,  and  stam 
mered  out,  — 

"  My  lord  count ! " 

"  What  is  it,  fellow  ?     Speak  !  " 

"  The  Cossacks !  "  cried  the  man.  And  his  information 
was  confirmed  by  a  loud  hurrah,  or  rather  yell,  that  rose 
without. 

"  Raise  the  drawbridge ! "  cried  the  count.  "  Curses  on 
it ! "  he  added,  "  I  had  forgotten  that  drawbridge  and  port 
cullis,  every  means  of  defence,  were  gone  long  ago." 

"  The  Cossacks  are  in  the  court  yard  ! "  cried  a  second 
servant,  rushing  in. 

"  A  thousand  curses  on  the  dogs  ! "  cried  Radetsky,  draw 
ing  his  sword.  "  Count,  look  to  your  child ;  I  will  to  the 
eourt  yard  with  your  fellows,  to  do  what  we  may." 


THE    COSSACK.  257 

By  this  time  the  court  yard  of  the  castle  was  filled  with 
uproar  and  turmoil.  The  clashing  of  swords  was  mingled 
with  pistol  shots  and  groans,  the  shouts  of  triumph  and 
the  shrieks  of  despair.  Alvina,  left  alone  by  her  father  and 
Radetsky,  trembled  not  at  the  prospect  of  approaching 
death  ;  she  felt  only  joy  at  her  deliverance  from  the  arms 
of  a  hated  bridegroom.  But  when  the  crackling  of  flames 
was  heard,  when  a  lurid  light  streamed  up  against  the 
window,  when  wreaths  of  smoke  began  to  pour  in  from  the 
corridors,  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  awakened  in  her 
breast,  and  almost  unconsciously  she  shrieked  aloud  for  help. 

Her  appeal  was  answered  unexpectedly.  A  tall,  plumed 
figure  dashed  into  the  room ;  a  vigorous  arm  was  thrown 
around  her  waist,  and  she  was  lifted  from  her  feet.  Her 
unknown  preserver,  unimpeded  by  her  light  weight,  passed 
into  the  corridor  with  a  fleet  step.  The  grand  staircase  was 
already  on  fire,  but,  drawing  his  furred  cloak  closely  around 
her,  the  stranger  dashed  through  the  flames,  and  bore  her 
out  into  the  court  yard.  Almost  before  she  knew  it,  she 
was  sitting  behind  him  on  a  fiery  steed.  The  rider  gave 
the  animal  the  spur,  and  he  dashed  through  the  gate,  fol 
lowed  by  a  hundred  wild  Cossacks,  shouting  and  yelling  in 
the  frenzy  of  their  triumph. 

Gratitude  for  an  escape  from  a  dreadful  death  was  now 
banished  from  Alvina's  mind  by  the  fear  of  a  worse  fate  at 
the  hands  of  these  wild  men. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life/'  she  said  to  her  unknown  com 
panion  ;  "  do  not  make  that  life  a  curse.  Take  pity  on  an 
unfortunate  and  sorely  persecuted  girl.  I  have  no  ransom 
to  pay  you ;  but  free  me,  and  you  will  earn  my  daily  prayers 
and  blessings." 

"  Fear  nothing,"  answered  a  deep  and  manly  yoice.  "  Nc 
22* 


258  THE    COSSACK. 

barm  is  intended  thee  ;  no  harm  shall  befall  tbee.  I  swcaf 
it  on  the  word  of  a  Cossack  chieftain." 

Alvina  was  tranquillized  at  once  by  the  evident  sincerity 
of  the  assurance. 

"  You  are  alone  now  in  the  world,"  pursued  the  stranger 
"  I  strove  to  save  your  bridegroom,  but  he  fell  before  I 
reached  him." 

"  I  loved  him  not,"  answered  Alvina,  coldly  ;  "  I  mourn 
him  not." 

"  You  may  hate  me  for  the  deed,"  said  the  stranger,  "  and 
I  would  fain  escape  that  woe ;  but  here  I  vouch  it  in  the 
face  of  heaven,  Count  Willnitz  fell  by  my  hand.  My 
sabre  clove  him  to  the  teeth.  Years  had  passed,  but  I  could 
not  forget  that  he  once  laid  the  bloody  scourge  upon  my 
back." 

"  Alexis  !  "  cried  Alvina,  now  recognizing  her  preserver. 

"Yes,  dear  but  unfortunate  girl,"  cried  the  Cossack 
leader,  turning  and  gazing  on  the  young  girl,  "  I  feel  that 
thou  art  lost  to  me  forever.  I  have  slain  thy  father.  Love 
for  thee  should  have  stayed  my  hand  ;  but  I  had  sworn  an 
oath  of  vengeance,  and  I  kept  my  vow." 

"  Alexis,"  whispered  Alvina,  "  he  Was  not  my  father.  He 
was  my  bitterest  enemy.  Nor  am  I  nobly  born.  Like  you, 
I  am  an  orphan." 

"  Say  you  so  ?  "  shouted  the  Cossack.  "  Then  thou  art 
mine  —  mine  and  forever  — joy  of  my  youth  —  blessing  of 
my  manhood ! " 

"  Yes,  thine  —  thine  only." 

"  But  bethink  thee,  sweetest,"  said  the  Cossack ;  "  I  lead 
u  strange  wild  life." 

"  I  will  share  it  with  thee,"  said  Alvina,  firmly. 

"  My  companions  are  rude  men." 

"  I  shall  see  only  thee." 


THE    COSSACK.  259 

"  My  home  is  the  saddle,  my  palace  the  wide  steppe." 
"  With  thee,  Alexis,  I  could  be  happy  any  where." 
"  Then  be  it  so,"  said  the  Cossack,  joyously.     "  What 
ho!"  he  shouted,  at  the  top  of  his  ringing,  trumpet-like 
voice.     "  Comrades,  behold  your  hetman's  bride  ! " 

From  mouth  to  mouth  the  words  of  the  Cossack  chieftain 
were  repeated,  and  oft  as  they  were  uttered  wild  shouts  of 
joy  rose  from  the  bearded  warriors  ;  for  they  had  loved  the 
gallant  Alexis  from  the  moment  when,  a  wayworn,  fam 
ished,  and  bleeding  fugitive,  he  came  among  them.  They 
galloped  round  and  round  the  hetman  and  his  fair  com 
panion  in  dizzying  circles,  like  the  whirling  leaves  of  autumn, 
firing  their  pistols,  brandishing  their  lances  and  sabres,  and 
making  the  welkin  ring  with  their  terrific  shouts.  Alvina 
clung,  terrified,  to  the  waist  of  her  lover,  and  he  finally 
silenced  the  noisy  demonstrations  by  a  wave  of  his  hand. 
Then,  under  his  leadership,  and  in  more  regular  order,  the 
formidable  band  of  horsemen  pursued  their  march  to  those 
distant  solitudes  where  happiness  awaited  their  chieftain  and 
his  bride. 


MARRIED  FOR  MONEY. 

"JACK  CLEVELAND  !  "  exclaimed  a  fast  young  man  in 
a  drab  driving  coat  with  innumerable  capes,  (it  was  twenty 
years  ago,  reader,  in  the  palmy  days  of  Tom  and  Jerry  and 
tandem  teams,)  as  he  encountered  an  equally  fast  young 
man  in  Cornhill ;  "  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  It's  all  over,  Frank  ;  I've  gone  and  done  it." 

"  Gone  and  done  what,  you  spooney  ?  " 

«  Proposed." 

"  Proposed  what  ?  —  a  match  at  billiards,  a  trot  on  the 
milldam,  or  a  main  of  cocks  ?  " 

"  Pooh !  —  something  more  serious,"  said  Cleveland, 
gravely  ;  "  I've  offered  myself." 

"Offered  yourself  ?     To  whom ? " 

"  Widow  —  Waffles  —  shy  name  —  never  mind  —  soon 
changed  —  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  —  cool,  eh  ? —  age 
forty  —  good  looks  —  married  for  money  —  sheriff  would 
have  it  —  no  friends  —  pockets  to  let  —  pays  my  debts  — 
sets  me  up  —  house  in  Beacon  Street  —  carriage  —  can't 
help  it." 

"  You're  a  candidate  for  Bedlam,"  said  Frank ;  "  I've  a 
great  mind  to  order  you  a  strait  jacket." 

"  Be  my  bridesman  —  see  me  off —  eh  ?  "  asked  Cleve 
land. 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course  —  it  will  be  great  fun." 

And  so  it  was.  Jack  Cleveland  was  united  to  the  widow 

260 


MARRIED    FOR    MONET.  .          261 

Waffles  in  Trinity  Church,  and  a  smashing  wedding  it  was. 
The  party  that  followed  it  was,  to  use  Cleveland's  own 
expressions,  "  a  crusher  —  all  Boston  invited  —  all  Africa 
waiting  — wax  lights  —  champagne  —  music  —  ices  —  pretty 
girls  —  a  bang-up  execution." 

During  the  honeymoon  Jack  Cleveland  was  all  attention 
to  his  bride,  (ilfaut  soigner  les  anciennes,)  but  he  promised 
to  indemnify  himself  by  taking  full  and  complete  liberty  so 
soon  as  that  interesting  period  of  time  had  been  brought  to 
a  close.  Besides,  his  chains  sat  lightly  at  first;  for  the 
widow  was  one  of  those  splendid  Lady  Blessington  kind  of 
women,  who  at  forty  have  just  arrived  at  the  imperial  ma 
turity  of  their  charms,  and  she  was  deeply  enamoured  of  the 
young  gentleman  whom  she  had  chosen  for  her  second  part 
ner  in  the  matrimonial  speculation.  Moreover,  she  paid 
the  debts  of  the  fast  young  man  with  an  exemplary  cheer 
fulness.  The  only  drawback  to  this  gush  of  felicity  was 
that  her  property  was  "  tied  up ; "  not  a  cent  could  Cleve 
land  handle  except  by  permission  of  his  lady.  Then  she 
kept  him  as  close  to  her  apron  strings  as  she  did  her  Blen 
heim  spaniel ;  she  required  him  to  obey  her  call  as  promptly 
as  her  coachman.  Galling  to  his  pride  though  it  was,  he 
was  even  forced  to  go  a  shopping  with  her ;  and  the  elegant 
Cleveland,  who  once  thought  it  degrading  to  carry  an 
umbrella,  might  be  seen  loaded  with  bandboxes,  or  non 
chalantly  lifting  bundles  of  cashmere  shawls.  The  only 
difference  between  Mrs.  Cleveland's  husband  and  her  foot 
man  was  that  he  received  wages ;  but  then  the  footman 
could  leave  when  he  chose,  and  there  the  parallel  ended. 
Jack's  habits  had  to  submit  to  a  rigid  and  inexorable  cen 
sorship.  "  Those  odious  cigars  "  were  prohibited,  and  then 
"  his  list  of  friends "  was  challenged.  Frank  Aikin,  the 
bridesman,  was  tolerated  the  longest  of  all,  and  then  he  was 

R 


262  MARRIED    FOR   MONET. 

"bluffed  off"  by  Mrs.  Cleveland,  who  determined  to  make 
her  husband  a  domestic  man.  It  was  the  old  story  of  Her 
cules  and  Omphale  modernized  to  suit  the  times. 

Jack  began  to  think  the  happiest  day  of  his  life  had  made 
him  the  most  miserable  dog  alive,  and,  like  Sir  Peter  Teazle, 
"  had  lost  all  comfort  in  the  world  before  his  friends  had 
done  wishing  him  joy."  But  his  debts  were  paid  —  that 
was  a  great  consolation.  Several  streets  in  Boston,  which 
were  blocked  up  by  creditors,  as  those  of  London  were  to 
the  respected  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller,  were  now  opened  by 
the  magic  wand  of  matrimony.  He  could  exhibit  his  "  Hy 
perion  curls  "  in  Washington  Street,  without  any  fear  of  a 
gentle  "  reminder  "  in  the  shape  of  a  tap  upon  the  shoulder. 

One  morning,  however,  a  lady  was  ushered  up  into  the 
splendid  drawing  room  in  Beacon  Street,  being  announced 
as  Madame  St.  Germain.  She  was  a  showy  French  woman, 
about  the  same  age  as  Mrs.  Cleveland,  and  the  latter  waited 
with  some  curiosity  to  learn  the  object  of  her  visit. 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Cleveland,  I  believe,"  said  the  French 
woman. 

Mrs.  Cleveland  bowed  in  her  stateliest  manner. 

"  You  have  undertaken,  I  learn,  to  pay  the  debts  of  Mon 
sieur  Cleveland,  contracted  before  your  marriage." 

Mrs.  Cleveland  bowed  again. 

"  I  hold  a  note  of  his  drawn  in  my  favor  for  a  thousand 
dollars,  payable  at  sight,  with  interest,  dated  two  years 
back." 

"  What  was  it  given  for  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Cleveland,  with 
some  asperity. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam  —  I  cannot  state  that  without  the 
permission  of  your  husband." 

Mrs.  Cleveland  applied  her  hand  vigorously  to  a  bell-pull 
communicating  with  her  husband's  dressing  room. 


MARRIED    FOR   MONEY.  265 

He  made  his  presence  in  a  splendid  robe  de  chanibre  and 
a  Turkish  cap  with  a  gold  tassel. 

"  This  woman,"  said  his  better  half,  "  says  you  owe  her  a 
thousand  dollars." 

"  Monsieur  cannot  deny  it,"  said  the  French  woman, 
fixing  her  keen  black  eyes  on  the  thunderstruck  Cleveland. 

"It's  all  right  —  pay  her  up  !  "  said  Mr.  Cleveland. 

"  Not  till  I  know  what  the  debt  was  incurred  for." 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Cleveland. 

"  I  insist,"  said  Mrs.  Cleveland,  stamping  her  foot. 

«  Then  I  won't  tell  —  if  you  die  ! "  said  the  rebellious 
Cleveland. 

"  I  shall  trouble  you,  ma'am,  to  leave  my  house,"  said  the 
irritated  mistress  of  the  mansion.  "  Not  one  farthing  on 
that  note  do  you  get  out  of  me." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  under  the  unpleasant  necessity  of  tak 
ing  legal  measures  to  obtain  the  debt,"  said  the  French 
woman,  rising.  "  Mr.  Cleveland,  I  wish  you  very  much  hap 
piness  with  your  amiable  lady." 

There  was  a  storm  —  a  regular  equinoctial  gale  —  after 
the  departure  of  Madame  St.  Germain.  Mrs.  Cleveland 
was  very  provoking,  and  Mr.  Cleveland  indulged  in  epi 
thets  unbecoming  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman.  That  night 
the  "  happy  couple "  luxuriated  in  separate  apartments. 
The  next  day  came  a  lawyer's  letter,  then  a  civil  process, 
and  finally  Mr.  John  Cleveland  was  marched  off  to  Lever- 
ett  Street  jail,  where,  after  giving  due  notice  to  his  creditor 
and  obtaining  bail,  he  was  allowed  the  benefit  of  the  "  limits," 
with  the  privilege  of  "  swearing  out,"  at  the  expiration  of 
thirty  days. 

Jack  engaged  lodging  at  a  little  tavern,  on  the  limits, 
where  he  found  Frank  Aikin,  who  had  rim  through  his ."  pile,' 
and  a  few  kindred  spirits  of  the  fast  young  men  school 


264  MARRIED    FOR   MONET. 

enacting  the  part  of  "  gentlemen  in  difficulties."  Cigars, 
champagne,  and  cards  were  ordered,  and  Jack  became  a 
fast  young  man  once  more.  Towards  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning,  he  forgot  having  married  a  widow,  and  think 
ing  himself  a  bachelor,  he  proposed  the  health  of  a  certain 
Miss  Julia  Vining,  which  was  drank  with  three  times  three. 
The  next  morning,  he  sat  down  to  a  capital  breakfast,  with 
more  fast  young  men,  and  for  a  whole  week  he  enjoyed 
himself  en  garcon,  without  once  thinking  of  the  forsaken 
Dido  in  Beacon  Street. 

One  day,  however,  when  he  had  exhausted  his  cash  and 
credit,  and  a  racking  headache  induced  him  to  regret  the 
speed  of  his  late  life,  a  carriage  rattled  up  to  the  door  of  the 
tavern,  his  own  door  was  shortly  after  thrown  open,  and  a 
lady  flung  herself  into  his  arms.  Mrs.  Cleveland  looked 
really  fascinating. 

"  Come  home,  my  dear  Jack,"  said  she,  bursting  into 
tears ;  "  I've  been  so  lonely  without  you." 

"  Not  so  fast,  Mrs.  Cleveland,"  said  the  young  gentleman, 
as  he  perceived  his  power.  "  I'm  very  happy  where  I  am. 
I  can't  go  back  except  on  certain  conditions." 

"  Name  them,  dearest." 

"  I'm  to  smoke  as  many  cigars  as  I  please." 

"  Granted." 

"  Not  to  carry  any  more  bandboxes  or  tomcats." 

"  Granted." 

"  To  give  a  dinner  party  to  the  '  boys '  once  in  a  while." 

"  Granted  —  granted.  And  I've  paid  your  note,  and 
opened  a  cash  account  for  you  at  the  bank." 

"  You  are  an  angel,"  said  .Cleveland  ;  "  and  now  it's  all 
over  - —  that  note  was  given  Madame  St.  Germain  for  tuition 
of  a  young  girl,  Miss  Julia  Vining,  whom  I  educated  with 
the  romantic  notion  of  making  her  my  wife,  when  she  should 


HARRIED    FOR   MONET.  265 

arrive  at  &  suitable  age,  at  which  period  she  ran  off  with  a 
one-eyed  French  fiddler,  and  is  now  taking  in  sewing  at  191st 
Street,  New  York." 

The  happy  pair  went  home  in  their  carriage,  and  we 
never  heard  of  any  differences  between  them.  Mrs.  Cleve 
land  wears  very  well,  and  Mr.  Cleveland  is  now  an  alder 
man,  remarkable  chiefly  for  the  ponderosity  of  his  person, 
and  the  heaviness  of  his  municipal  harangues.  "  Sich  la 
life/' 

23 


THE  EMIGRANT  SHIR 

ON  a  summer's  day,  some  years  ago,  business  brought 
me  to  one  of  the  wharves  of  this  city,  at  the  moment  when 
a  ship  from  Liverpool  had  just  arrived,  with  some  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  emigrants,  men,  women,  and  children,  chiefly 
Irish.  Much  as  I  had  heard  and  read  of  the  condition  of 
many  of  the  poor  passengers,  I  never  fully  realized  their 
distresses  until  I  personally  witnessed  them. 

Under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  the  removal  of 
families  froni  the  land  of  their  birth  is  attended  by  many 
painful  incidents.  About  to  embark  upon  a  long  and  per 
ilous  voyage,  to  seek  the  untried  hospitalities  of  a  stranger 
Boil,  the  old  landmarks  and  associations  which  the  heart 
strings  grasp  with  a  cruel  tenacity  are  viewed  through  the 
mist  of  tears  and  agony. 

The  old  church  —  the  weather-worn  homestead  —  the 
ancient  school  house,  the  familiar  play  ground,  and  more 
sadly  dear  than  all,  the  green  graveyard,  offer  a  mute  ap 
peal  "  more  eloquent  than  words."  But  when  to  these 
afflictions  of  the  heart  are  added  the  pangs  of  physical 
suffering  and  privation;  when  emigrants,  in  embarking, 
embark  their  all  in  the  expenses  of  the  voyage,  and  have 
no  hope,  even  for  existence,  but  in  a  happy  combination 
of  possible  chances ;  when  near  and  dear  ones  must  be 
left  behind,  certainly  to  suffer,  and  probably  to  die,  —  the 

266 


THE    EMIGRANT    SHIP.  2G7 

pangs  of  separation  embrace  all  that  can  be  conceived  of 
agony  and  distress. 

The  emigrant  ship  whose  arrival  we  witnessed  had  been 
seventy  odd  days  from  port  to  port.  Her  passengers  were 
of  the  poorest  class.  Their  means  had  been  nearly  ex 
hausted  in  going  from  Dublin  to  Liverpool,  and  in  endeav 
ors  to  obtain  work  in  the  latter  city,  previous  to  bidding  a 
reluctant  but  eternal  farewell  to  the  old  country.  They 
came  on  board  worn  out  —  wan  —  the  very  life  of  many 
dependent  on  a  speedy  passage  over  the  Atlantic.  In  this 
they  were  disappointed.  The  ship  had  encountered  a  suc 
cession  of  terrific  gales ;  it  had  leaked  badly,  and  they  had 
been  confined,  a  great  part  of  the  voyage,  to  their  narrow 
quarters  between  decks,  herded  together  in  a  noisome  and 
pestilential  atmosphere,  littered  with  damp  straw,  and  full 
of  filth. 

What  marvel  that  disease  and  death  invaded  their  ranks  ? 
One  after  another,  many  died  and  were  launched  into  the 
deep  sea.  The  ship  entered  Fayal  to  refit,  and  there  that 
clime  of  endless  summer  proved  to  the  emigrants  more 
fatal  than  the  blast  of  the  upas-poisoned  valley  of  Java. 
The  delicious  oranges,  and  the  mild  Pico  wine,  used  liber 
ally  by  the  passengers,  sowed  the  seeds  of  death  yet  more 
freely  among  their  ranks.  On  the  passage  from  Fayal,  the 
mortality  was  dreadful,  but  at  length,  decimated  and  dis 
eased,  the  band  of  emigrants  arrived  at  Boston. 

It  was  a  summer's  day  —  but  no  cheering  ray  of  light  fell 
upon  the  spires  of  the  city.  The  sky  was  dark  and  gloomy ; 
the  bay  spread  out  before  the  eye  like  a  huge  sheet  of  lead, 
and  the  clouds  swept  low  and  heavily  over  the  hills  and 
house  tops. 

After  the  vessel  was   moored,  all  the  passengers  who 


268  THE    EMIGRANT    SHIP. 

were  capable  of  moving,  or  of  being  moved,  came  up  or 
were  brought  up  on  deck.  We  scanned  their  wan  and 
haggard  features  with  curiosity  and  pity. 

Here  was  the  wreck  of  an  athletic  man.  His  eyes, 
deep-sunken  in  their  orbits,  were  nearly  as  glassy  as  those 
of  a  corpse ;  his  poor  attire  hung  loosely  on  his  square 
shoulders.  His  matted  beard  rendered  his  sickly,  greenish 
countenance  yet  more  wan  and  livid.  He  crawled  about 
the  deck  alone  —  his  wife  and  five  children,  they  for  whom 
he  had  lived  and  struggled,  for  whose  sake  he  was  mak 
ing  a  last  desperate  exertion,  had  all  been  taken  from  him 
on  the  voyage.  We  addressed  him  some  questions  touch 
ing  his  family. 

"  They  are  all  gone,"  said  he,  "  the  wife  and  the  childer. 
The  last  one  —  the  babby  —  died  this  mornin'  —  she  lies 
below.  They're  best  off  where  they  are." 

In  another  place  sat  a  shivering,  ragged  man,  the  pic 
ture  of  despair.  A  few  of  his  countrymen,  who  had 
gathered  round  him,  offered  him  some  food.  He  might 
have  taken  it  eagerly  some  days  before.  Now  he  gazed 
on  vacancy,  without  noticing  their  efforts  to  induce  him  to 
take  some  nourishment.  Still  they  persevered,  and  one 
held  a  cooling  glass  of  lemonade  to  his  parched  lips. 

Seated  on  the  after  hatchway  was  a  little  boy  who  had 
that  morning  lost  both  his  parents.  He  shed  no  tear.  Fa 
miliarity  with  misery  had  deprived  him  of  that  sad  con 
solation. 

We  passed  on  to  a  group  of  Irishmen  gathered  round  an 
old  gray-haired  man  lying  at  length  upon  the  forward  deck. 
One  of  them  was  kneeling  beside  him. 

"  Father,  father ! "  said  he,  earnestly,  "  rouse  up,  for  the 
love  of  Heaven.  See  here  —  I've  brought  ye  some  por 
ridge —  tak  a  sup  ov  it  —  it  will  give  ye  heart  and  life." 


THE    EMIGRANT    SHIP.  269 

"  Sorrow  a  bit  of  life's  left  in  the  old  man  any  how.  Lave 
him  alone,  Jamie." 

"  Lift  him  ashore,"  said  the  mate  —  "  he  wants  air." 

The  dying  man  was  carefully  lifted  on  the  wharf,  and 
laid  down  upon  a  plank.  His  features  changed  rapidly 
during  the  transit.  His  head  now  fell  back  —  the  pallid 
hue  of  death  invaded  his  lips  —  his  lower  jaw  relaxed 
—  the  staring  eyeballs  had  no  speculation  in  them  —  a 
slight  shudder  convulsed  his  frame.  The  son  kneeled  be 
side  him  ;  closed  his  eyes  —  it  was  all  over.  And  there, 
in  the  open  air,  with  no  covering  to  shield  his  reverend 
locks  from  the  falling  rain,  passed  away  the  soul  of  the  old 
man  from  its  earthly  tabernacle. 

The  hospital  cart  arrived.  Busy  agents  lifted  into  it, 
with  professional  sangfroid,  crippled  age  and  tottering  child 
hood.  But  all  the  spectators  of  this  harrowing  scene  tes 
tified,  by  their  expressions,  sympathy  and  sorrow,  one  low 
browed  ruffian  alone  excepted. 

"  Serves  'em  right  —  d — n  'em  ! "  said  he,  savagely. 
"  Why  don't  they  stay  at  home  in  their  own  country,  and 
not  come  here  to  take  the  bread  out  of  honest  people's 
mouths  ?  " 

Honest,  quotha?  If  ever  "flat  burglary"  and  "treason 
dire  "  were  written  on  a  man's  face,  it  stood  out  in  staring 
capitals  upon  that  Cain-like  brow. 

But  there  were  lights  as  well  as  shadows  to  the  picture. 
Out  of  that  grim  den  of  death,  out  of  that  floating  lazar 
house,  there  came  a  few  blooming  maidens  and  stalwart 
youths,  like  fair  flowers  springing  from  the  rankness  of  a 
eharnel.  Their  sorrows  were  but  for  the  misfortunes  of 
others ;  and  even  these  were  a  while  forgotten  in  the  joy 
of  meeting  near  and  dear  relatives,  and  old  friends  upoif 
23* 


270  THE    EMIGRANT    SHIP. 

the  shore  of  the  promised  land.  They  went  their  way  re- 
ioicing,  and  with  them  passed  the  solitary  ray  of  sunshine 
that  streamed  athwart  the  dark  horrors  of  the  emigrant 
ship,  like  the  wandering  pencil  of  light  that  sometime! 
visits  the  condemned  cell  of  a  prison. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STAGE  COACHES. 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  CLUB-ROOM  CONVERSATION. 

"  DID  you  ever,"  said  the  one-eyed  gentleman,  fixing  hia 
single  sound  optic  upon  us  with  an  intensity  which  made  it 
glow  like  one  of  the  coals  in  the  grate  before  us,  "  did  you 
ever  hear  how  I  met  with  this  misfortune  ?  " 

"  What  misfortune,  sir  ?  " 

"  The  misfortune  which  made  a  Cyclops  of  me  —  the  loss 
of  my  left  eye." 

"  Never,  sir.     Pray  how  was  it  ?  " 

"  Put  out  by  the  cinder  of  a  locomotive,"  growled  the 
one-eyed  gentleman,  seizing  the  poker  and  stirring  up  the 
fire  viciously.  "  Bad  things  these  railroads,  sir,"  he  added, 
when  he  had  demolished  a  huge  fragment  of  sea  coal. 
"  Only  last  week —  little  boy  playing  on  bank  in  his  father's 
garden  —  little  dog  ran  on  the  track  —  boy  went  down  to 
call  him  off — express  train  came  along  —  forty-five  miles 
an  hour  and  no  stoppages  —  ran  over  boy  and  dog  —  agon 
ized  parents  sought  for  the  remains  —  nothing  found  except 
one  shoe,  the  buckle  of  his  hatband,  and  brass  collar  of 
the  dog." 

"  Extraordinary ! " 

"  No,  sir ;  not  extraordinary,"  said  the  one-eyed  gentle 
man.  "  I  maintain  it's  a  common  occurrence.  Sir,  I  keep 
a  railroad  journal  at  home,  as  large  as  a  family  Bible.  It 

271 


272  THE    LAST    OP    THE    STAGE    COACHES- 

IS  filled  with  brief  accounts  —  brief,  mind  you  —  of  railroad 
accidents.     Next  year  I  shall  have  to  buy  another  book." 

"  Then  you  are  a  decided  enemy  of  railroads  ?  " 

"  Decided ! "  said  the  one-eyed  gentleman.  "  Their  preva 
lence  and  extent  is  a  proof  that  the  age  is  lapsing  into  bar 
barism.  Ah  J  you  remember  the  stage  coaches  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  one-eyed  gentleman,  warmly, "  travel 
ling  was  travelling  in  those  days ;  sir,  it  was  a  pleasure. 
The  coaches  were  fast  enough  for  any  reasonable  man  ;  ten 
miles  an  hour,  including  stoppages.  Ah  !  "  he  added,  smack 
ing  his  lips,  "  what  a  fine  thing  it  was  to  start  on  a  journey 
of  a  glorious  October  morning,  when  every  thing  looked 
bright  and  smiling !  You  mounted  to  the  box  or  the  roof, 
well  wrapped  up  in  your  greatcoat  and  shawl,  with  your 
trunk  safely  strapped  upon  the  rack  behind.  The  driver 
was  a  man  of  substance  —  solid,  of  a  gravity  tempered  with 
humor,  a  giant  in  a  brown  box-coat,  with  gray  hat  and 
mittens.  How  he  handled  the  ribbons  and  took  his  cattle 
through  Elm  Street !  How  the  long  bridges  rumbled  and 
thundered  as  we  bowled  along  away,  away  into  the  country  ! 
The  country  !  it  was  the  country  then ;  inhabited  by  country 
people,  not  peopled  with  a  mixed  society  of  farmers  and 
cits,  six  o'  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  t'other.  How  nicely  we 
glided  along !  There  were  birds,  in  those  days,  singing  by 
the  roadside  ;  now  the  confounded  locomotives  have  scared 
them  all  off.  By  and  by  we  came  to  a  tavern.  Out  rushed 
a  troop  of  hostlers  and  keepers  skilled  in  horse  flesh.  The 
cattle  were  just  allowed  to  wet  their  lips,  water  was  dashed 
on  their  legs  and  feet,  and  then,  after  the  parcels  and  papers 
had  been  tossed  off,  away  we  went  again.  Five  miles 
farther  on,  we  pulled  up  to  change.  The  fresh  team  was 
led  out,  bright,  shining,  and  glittering,  in  tip-top  condition 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    STAGE    COACHES.'  273 

The  driver  descended  to  stretch  his  legs  and  personally 
superintend  the  putting  to  of  the  fresh  horses.  When  he 
mounted  the  box  again,  his  experienced  eye  glanced  rapidly 
at  the  team,  and  then,  with  an  « all  right  —  let  'em  go ! '  we 
were  on  the  road  once  more." 

The  one-eyed  gentleman  paused,  after  this  flow  of  elo 
quence,  and  gazed  pensively  into  the  midst  of  the  glowing 
coals:  After  a  few  moments'  silence,  he  resumed  :  — 

"  Rather  a  singular  occurrence  happened  to  me  last  year 
on  the  14th  of  October,  about  half  past  twelve,  P.M.  I 
am  thus  particular  about  dates,  because  this  event  is  one 
that  forms  an  era  in  my  life.  I  had  been  driving  across  the 
country  in  my  gig,  to  visit  a  friend  who  had  recently  moved 
upon  a  farm.  The  localities  were  new  to  me,  and  the  roads 
blind.  Guideboards  were  few,  and  human  beings  fewer. 
In  short,  I  got  astray,  and  hadn't  the  remotest  conception 
of  what  part  of  the  country  I  was  in.  It  was  a  cold,  cloudy- 
day,  with  a  sort  of  drizzling  Scotch  mist  that  wet  one  to  the 
bone.  I  plodded  along  in  hopes  of  soon  reaching  some 
tavern,  where  I  could  bait  my  horse  and  get  some  dinner 
for  myself.  All  at  once,  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  just  after 
having  crossed  the  Concord  River,  I  perceived  a  stage  coach 
coming  towards  me.  I  had  heard  no  noise  of  wheels  or 
horses'  feet ;  but  there  it  was.  The  road  was  narrow,  and 
the  coachman  pulled  up  to  let  me  work  my  way  past.  The 
vehicle  was  a  queer  old  affair,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
dug  out  of  some  antediluvian  stable  yard.  The  curtains 
were  brown  with  age  and  dust,  and  riddled  with  holes ;  the 
body  was  bare  and  worm-eaten,  and  the  springs  perfectly 
green  with  mould.  The  horses  were  thin  and  lank,  and  the 
harness  in  as  sorry  a  condition  as  the  coach.  The  driver's 
clothes,  which  were  very  old  fashioned,  hung  about  him  in 
loose  folds,  and  he  gazed  upon  me  with  a  strange,  stoiiy 


274  THE   LAST    OF    THE    STAGE    COACHES. 

stare  that  was  absolutely  appalling ;  yet  his  lips  unclosed  a3 
I  worked  past  him,  and  he  exclaimed  in  a  harsh,  croaking 
voice,  *  One  eye  ! '  Thereupon  two  or  three  queer  people 
poked  their  heads  out  of  the  coach  window.  There  was  one 
old  woman  with  false  teeth,  in  an  unpleasant  state  of  decay, 
and  a  voice  like  a  parrot.  '  One  eye  ! '  she  shrieked,  as  she 
gazed  on  me  with  an  eye  as  stony  as  the  coachman.  A 
pale,  simpering  miss  smirked  in  my  face,  and  cried,  *  One 
eye  ! '  and  a  military  gentleman,  with  a  ghastly  frown, 
hissed  forth  the  same  words.  I  should  have  scrutinized  the 
qeeer  coach  and  the  queer  people  closer,  had  not  my  horse 
—  my  good,  old,  quiet,  steady  horse  —  seized  the  bit  in  his 
mouth  and  started  off  at  a  dead  run.  I  tried  to  saw  him 
up,  but  it  was  no  use ;  he  ran  for  a  couple  of  miles,  and 
did  not  slacken  till  he  had  brought  me  to  the  door  of  an  old, 
decayed  tavern,  where  I  resigned  him  to  the  charge  of  a 
lame  hostler,  and  made  my  way  into  the  house  in  search 
of  the  landlord.  I  found  him  at  last  — a  poor,  poverty- 
pinched  man,  who  had  been  ruined  by  the  railroad.  He 
complained  bitterly  of  the  hard  times.  l  But,'  said  I,  *  you 

must  have  some  custom ;  the  stage  coaches '     '  Bless 

your  soul,'  replied  he,  '  there  hasn't  been  a  coach  on  this  road 
for  fifteen  years.'  *  What  do  you  mean  ? '  said  I ;  '  I  met  a 
coach  and  passengers  two  miles  back,  near  the  river.'  TKe 
landlord  turned  pale.  '  What  day  is  this  ?  '  he  asked.  *  The 
14th  of  October.'  '  The  14th  of  October  ! '  cried  the  land 
lord  ;  '  I  remember  that  date  well.  That  day,  fifteen  years 
since,  was  the  last  trip  of  the  old  mail  coach.  It  left 
here,  with  Bill  Snaffle,  -the  driver,  and  three  insides,  a 
military  man,  an  old  woman,  and  a  young  lady.  They  were 
never  heard  of  after  they  left  here.  Their  trail  was  fol 
lowed  as  far  as  the  bridge.  It  is  supposed  that  the  horses 
got  frightened  at  something,  and  backed  off  into  the  Concord 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    STAGE    COACHES.  275 

River.  But  I  have  heard/  added  the  landlord,  in  a  hollow 
whisper,  '  that  on  this  anniversary  the  ghost  of  that  coach 
and  company  may  be  seen  upon  the  turnpike.  More,  I 
will  tell  you,  in  confidence,  that  I  have  seen  them  myself.' 
After  this  I  was  convinced  that  I  had  been  favored  —  if 
favor  it  may  be  called  —  with  a  spiritual  visitation." 

The  ona-eyed  gentleman  looked  me  full  in  the  face,  as  if 
to  say,  "  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  "  It  was  useless  to  argue 
with  him  ;  so  I  only  shook  my  head.  He  nodded  his  in  a 
very  mysterious  manner,  and  fell  to  poking  the  fire  with 
redoubled  activity  ;  and  I  bade  him  good  night,  and  left  him 
to  pursue  his  occupation. 


THE   SEXTON   OF   ST.   HUBERT'S. 

A  STORY  OF  OLD  ENGLAND. 

CHAPTER   I. 
THE    QUEEN   OF   THE    MAY. 

IN  a  remote  region  in  the  northern  part  of  England,  the 
people  still  cherish  an  attachment  to  old  usages  and  sports, 
and  hold  the  observance  of  Christmas,  May-day,  and  other 
time-honored  festivals,  a  sacred  obligation.  One  village,  in 
particular,  is  famous  for  its  May-day  sports,  which,  as  the 
curate  is  a  little  withered  antiquary,  are  conducted  with 
great  ceremony  and  fidelity  to  old  authorities.  The  May 
pole  is  brought  home,  garlanded,  and  decked  with  ribbons, 
to  the  sound  of  pipe  and  tabor,  surrounded  by  a  laughing 
throng  of  sturdy  yeomen  and  buxom  maidens.  It  is  erect 
ed  on  the  great  green,  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  to  the 
universal  delight  of  old  and  young,  and  the  dancing  com 
mences  round  it  with  high  glee.  The  scene  presented  is 
like  that  described  by  Goldsmith,  — 

"  Where  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free., 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 

276 


THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.    HUBERT'S.  277 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round." 

It  was  a  delightful  spring,  that  of  17 — ,  and  a  softer  sky 
Dever  before  smiled  upon  the  village  green  of  Redwood, 
upon  the  1st  of  May ;  and  among  the  merry  damsels 
dancing  round  the  May-pole,  no  heart  was  happier,  and  no 
step  was  lighter,  than  that  of  Margaret  Ellis,  who,  for  the 
first  time,  joined  in  the  sports  of  the  day.  She  was  a  child 
of  May,  and  this  was  the  sixteenth  anniversary  of  her 
birthday.  A  gay  brunette,  her  sparkling  eyes  had  all  the 
fire  and  the  mirth  of  the  sunny  and  passionate  south,  while 
no  lighter  or  more  delicate  foot  than  hers  could  have  been 
found  upon  the  merry  green.  A  rich  bloom  mantled  on  her 
cheek,  her  lips  were  fresh  and  red,  and  her  regular  teeth, 
displayed  as  she  panted  in  the  dance,  were  white  as  unsul 
lied  snow.  A  tight  little  bodice,  and  a  milk-white  frock, 
set  off  the  charms  of  her  person  in  the  best  manner.  Then 
there  was  an  air  of  gayety  and  innocence  about  her  which 
delighted  every  good-natured  observer ;  and  all  the  villa 
gers  allowed  that  Margaret  Ellis  deserved  the  tiara 
of  flowers  that  crowned  her  Queen  of  the  May.  She 
blushed  at  the  tokens  of  good  will  and  approbation,  as  she 
placed  her  hand  in  that  of  a  young  and  rustic  stranger, 
who  led  her  off  triumphantly  at  the  head  of  the  dancers. 
The  youth  was  fair-haired,  ruddy,  athletic,  and  active  ;  and 
those  who  saw  them  in  the  dance  could  not  help  acknowl 
edging  that  they  were  a  lovely  pair. 

There  was  one  who  regarded  them  with  eyes  of  jealous 
displeasure.  This  was  a  man  of  forty,  of  a  handsome  face 
and  figure,  but  swarthy,  dark-haired,  and  melancholy.  He 
bent  over  the  seat  upon  which  old  Farmer  Ellis  and  his 
dame  were  seated,  and  whispered,  "  Do  you  know  the 
young  man  who  is  dancing  with  your  daughter  ?  " 
24  s 


278  THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.    HUBERT'S. 

"  Ah !  he  be  a  right  good  young  mon,  I  warrant  me," 
said  the  dame.  "  He  do  come  fra  the  next  county.  Wil 
liam  Evans,  he  calls  himself." 

"  lie  calls  himself !  —  umph  ! "  muttered  the  person  who 
had  first  spoken.  "  But  what  do  others  call  him  ?  Who 
knows  any  thing  about  him  ?  Who  can  vouch  for  his  char 
acter  ?  I  would  not  suffer  a  daughter  of  mine  to  be  gad 
ding  about,  and  dancing  with  a  stranger." 

"  Whoy,  for  the  matter  o'  that,"  said  Farmer  Ellis,  "  you 
were  nought  but  a  stranger  yourself,  when  you  first  did 
come  to  see  us,  Maister  Pembroke.  We  didn't  know  you 
were  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's.  And  yet  you  turned  out 
a  right  good  friend  to  me,  mon ;  for  when  ye  first  knew  me, 
things  were  deadly  cross  wi*  me.  What  wi'  the  rot  among 
my  sheep,  and  the  murrain  among  my  cattle,  I  were  all  but 
ruined.  Short  crops  and  a  hard  landlord  are  bitter  bad 
things.  Bat  you  were  the  salvation  of  me,  and  I'll  work 
my  fingers  to  the  bone,  but  what  you  shall  have  your  own 
again,  John  Pembroke." 

"There  is  one  way  in  which  you  can  liquidate  your 
debt.'-' 

"  Name  it,  Maister  Pembroke,"  said  the  farmer,  eagerly. 

"No  matter,"  muttered  the  sexton,  and  a  hollow  sigh 
escaped  his  lips.  "  I  had  an  idea,  but  it  is  gone.  Touch 
ing  the  stranger,  in  whom  you  both  repose  such  confidence. 
In  what  manner  does  he  earn  his  daily  bread  ?  " 

"  Whoy,"  said  the  farmer,  "  in  the  way  that  Adam  did, 
mon.  He  do  say  he  is  a  gardener." 

"  A  likely  tale ! "  ejaculated  the  sexton.  "  Look  at  his 
hands.  Why,  his  fingers  are  delicate  and  white.  Your 
gardener  has  horny  fingers,  and  a  palm  of  iron." 

"  Dang  it !  so  they  be ! "  cried  Ellis.  "  Well,  I  neve* 
noticed  that  afore.  Whoy,  dame,  he  may  be  an  impostor 


THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.  HUBERT  S.  279 

And  though  he  be  so  cruel  koind,  and  deadly  fond  of  the 
girl,  now,  he  may  forsake  —  may " 

•'  Look  at  them,  now,"  said  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's. 
"  See  how  he  grasps  her  hand  ;  and  how,  as  he  whispers  his 
soft,  insinuating  flattery  in  her  ear,  she  blushes  and  smiles 
upon  him.  Damnation  !  " 

"  Whoy,  John  ! "  exclaimed  Dame  Ellis  ;  "  what  would 
the  rector  say  to  hear  thee?  Thou  art  surely  distraught." 

And  now,  as  Margaret,  flushed  and  panting  with  exer 
cise,  was  suffering  her  partner  to  lead  her  towards  her  seat, 
her  father  beckoned  her  to  approach. 

"  Come  hither,  girl,"  said  he.  The  smiling  maiden 
obeyed.  "  Margaret,"  said  the  old  man,  "  thou  knowest  I 
love  thee.  I  ha'  always  been  cruel  koind  to  thee,  and  so 
has  thy  mother,  girl.  If  any  harm  was  to  happen  to  thee, 
I  should  take  it  desperately  to  heart.  I  should,  indeed. 
It  would  kill  thy  father,  Margaret.  Now,  William  iilvans 
may  be  a  good  young  man,  and  he  may  not ;  but  ^ve  must 
beware  of  strangers.  Wait  till  we  have  tried  him  a  bit 
Many  a  handsome  nag  turns  out  a  vicious  one.  So  it  be 
my  pleasure,  and  the  dame's,  that  thou  dost  not  daace  any 
more  to-day  wi'  William  Evans  ;  and  even  if  he  speaks  to 
thee,  be  a  little  offish  loike  to  him." 

The  poor  girl  sighed.  "  I  hope,  sir,"  said  she,  \  lancing 
at  the  sexton,  "  that  no  person  possessed  of  an  unhaj  py  and 
suspicious  temper  has  been  prejudicing  you  against  poor 
William.  I  hope  Mr.  Pembroke " 

"  Hush,  girl  —  hush  ! "  cried  Ellis.  "  Doant  theo  say  a 
word  against  that  man.  But  for  him  we  mought  ail  ha* 
been  beggars.  Do  as  I  bid  thee,  girl,  and  doan't  thee  ask 
no  questions ;  for  you  know  I've  got  no  head  to  argmy." 

Margaret  slowly  sank  into  a  seat.  The  sexton  leaned 
over  her,  and  addressed  to  her  some  commonplace  remarks, 


280  THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.    HUBERT'S. 

to  all  of  which  she  returned  answer  in  monosyllables.  When 
the  music  recommenced  a  lively  air,  William  advanced,  and 
solicited  her  hand  for  the  next  dance.  Poor  Margaret 
bent  her  eyes  upon  the  ground,  and  falteringly  refused. 
Thinking  he  could  not  have  heard  her  rightly,  Evans  again 
asked  the  question,  and  received,  a  second  time,  the  same 
answer.  For  a  moment  his  countenance  expressed  aston 
ishment  ;  the  next  there  was  a  look  of  grief,  and  then  his 
lip  curled,  and  drawing  himself  up  proudly,  he  stalked  away. 
He  was  followed  by  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's,  who  over 
took  him,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  William 
turned  fiercely,  and  endeavored  to  shake  off  the  grasp. 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  sexton,  "  you  are  discovered  ! " 

"  Discovered !  "  exclaimed  William.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  You  understand  me,"  said  the  sexton ;  "  your  manners, 
your  language,  your  figure,  contradict  the  story  you  have 
fabricated.  Margaret  shall  never  be  your  victim.  With 
her  your  boasted  arts  are  valueless ! " 

"  If  you  were  a  gentleman "  said  William. 

«  Ha,  ha ! "  laughed  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's.  "  Is  this 
the  resentment  of  a  rustic  ?  Go,  young  man  ;  you  have 
exposed  yourself." 

"  Remove  your  hand ! "  said  the  young  man  ;  "  and  think 
it  unusual  forbearance  on  my  part,  that  I  do  not  chastise 
you  as  you  deserve.  We  shall  meet  again,  and  with  a  stern 
er  greeting."  So  they  parted. 


THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.    HUBERT'S.  281 

CHAPTER   II. 

THE  GYPSY  CAMP. 

THE  clear,  unshadowed  sun,  as  it  declined  towards  the 
western  verge  of  the  horizon,  shone  brightly  upon  the  gypsy 
encampment,  a  few  miles  from  Redwood.  The  wandering 
tribe  had  displayed  their  proverbial  taste,  in  their  selection 
of  a  spot  wherein  to  pitch  their  tents.  A  green  and  glossy 
pasture  was  partly  surrounded  by  a  luxuriant  forest,  of 
ancient  oaks,  which  supplied  the  crew  with  firewood  ;  while 
a  beautiful  and  clear  stream,  the  pride  and  boast  of  the 
county,  curved  into  the  waving  grass  land,  and  kept  it  ever 
fresh  and  verdant.  Here  and  there  its  silvery  bosom  reflect 
ed  a  small  tent,  or  the  figure  of  an  idler,  bending  over  the 
bank,  with  fishing  rod  in  hand,  a  perfect  picture  of  patience 
and  philosophy.  Half  a  dozen  tents  served  to  accommo 
date  the  gregarious  fraternity ;  and  though  the  sail  cloths 
which  composed  them  were  worn  and  weather-beaten,  yet 
their  brown  hues  harmonized  well  with  the  rich  tints  of  the 
landscape,  and  showed  distinct  enough  against  the  dark 
background  of  the  forest.  As  the  shades  of  the  evening 
darkened  the  ancestral  trees,  a  line  of  fire  was  lit  up,  the 
flames  of  which  glared  ruddily  against  the  huge  trunks  of 
the  woodland,  and  played  and  flickered  in  the  rippling 
stream.  Huge  kettles,  suspended  on  forked  sticks,  were 
beginning  to  send  up  a  savory  steam  ;  and  several  swar 
thy  beings,  lounging  round  the  fires,  occasionally  fed  them, 
or  basking  in  the  blaze,  watched  the  bubbling  of  the  cal 
drons  with  intense  anxiety.  Even  the  king  of  the  gypsies 
observed  the  preparations  for  supper  with  an  eager  air 
which  ill  assorted  with  his  lofty  forehead  and  reverend  white 
24* 


282  THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.    HUBERT'S. 

beard.  Every  moment  some  stroller  would  come  in  with 
a  pilfered  fowl,  or  a  basket  of  eggs ;  and  each  addition  to 
the  feast  was  hailed  with  shouts  of  applause  by  the  swarthy 
crew. 

Somewhat  remote  from  this  scene  of  bustle  and  noise,  at 
the  door  of  a  small  tent,  sat  two  female  gypsies.  One  of 
these  was  the  queen,  an  aged  crone,  who,  though  bent  with 
age  and  care,  and  wrinkled  by  time  and  the  indulgence 
of  vehement  passions,  yet  prided  herself  upon  the  unfrosted 
darkness  of  her  raven  tresses,  which  fell  over  her  shoul 
ders  in  profusion.  A  turban  of  rich  crimson  cloth  crowned 
her  head,  and  a  shawl  of  the  same  color  and  material  was 
wrapped  around  her  shoulders.  Her  skinny  hands  were 
supported  by  a  silver-headed  staff,  which  was  covered  with 
quaint  carvings.  Her  gown  wras  of  dark  serge,  and  her 
shoes  were  pointed,  and  turned  up  in  the  Oriental  fashion, 
and  garnished  with  broad  silver  buckles.  She  sat  apart, 
and  the  rising  moon  shone  down  upon  her  dusky  figure,  and 
threw  her  wild  features  into  bold  relief.  At  her  feet  sat  a 
beautiful  girl,  with  dark  Grecian  features,  and  a  full,  vo 
luptuous  form.  She,  too,  had  long,  flowing,  raven  tresses, 
into  which  were  twisted  strings  of  pearl.  From  a  necklace 
of  topaz  hung  a  little  silver  crucifix,  resting  upon  a  full  and 
heaving  bust,  to  which  was  fitted  a  close  jacket,  made  of 
deep-blue  cloth,  and  fastened  together  with  loops  and  silver 
buttons.  Her  soft  and  round  arms  were  naked,  save  at  the 
shoulders,  and  her  wrists  were  encircled  with  tarnished 
gold  bracelets.  Her  white  petticoat  was  short  enough  to 
display  a  well-turned  ankle,  and  a  small  foot,  encased  in 
neat  black  slippers.  Her  features,  dark  and  sun-browned, 
showed  to  more  advantage  in  the  pale  moonlight  than  they 
would  have  done  in  the  broad  blaze  of  day.  The  gypsy  gir] 


THE    SEXTON   OF    ST.    HUBERT'S.  283 

sat  at  the  feet  of  the  queen,   and  looking  up  in  her  face, 
listened  attentively  to  her  discourse. 

"  Myra,"  said  the  queen  of  the  gypsies,  "  do  you  love  him 
yet  ?  " 

"  Love  him  !  "  repeated  the  girl.  "  Yes,  mother —  pas 
sionately.  To  obtain  his  hand  —  his  heart,  I  would  peril 
every  thing ! " 

"  Strange  and  mysterious  passion ! "  said  the  crone, 
"  which  defies  reason  and  law.  Many  years  agone  I  loved 
with  the  same  intense  devotion.  The  same  fiery  blood 
courses  in  your  veins ;  the  same  contempt  of  obstacles. 
Yet  the  man  I  loved  was  nobler  and  prouder  than  the  sex 
ton  of  St.  Hubert's.  We  lived  among  the  Gitanos  of 
Spain,  when  we  were  wedded.  Five  sons  I  bore  to  the 
partner  of  my  cares.  Where  are  they  ?  One  followed  his 
father  to  the  gibbet;  a  second  hurled  defiance  at  his 
enemies,  as  he  perished  in  the  flames  of  an  auto  da  fe ; 
the  third  and  fourth  died  in  the  galleys ;  the  fifth  —  the 
fifth,  Myra  —  my  best  beloved,  my  brave,  my  beautiful, 
received  his  death  wound  in  defending  me  from  outrage, 
You  are  his  child!  Judge,  then,  how  I  love  you,  my  daugh 
ter.  You  love  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's  —  he  shall  marry 
you." 

"  Ah,  mother ! "  said  the  gypsy  girl,  "  I  fear  me  he  is  lost 
He  is  the  accepted  lover  of  Margaret  Ellis.  She  did  love 
a  young  stranger  ;  but  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's  has  Farm 
er  PLllis  in  his  debt,  and  threatened  to  throw  him  in  jail, 
if  the  latter  did  not  grant  him  the  hand  of  his  daughter. 
He  has  done  so,  and  the  wedding  day  is  fixed.  Alas 
before  he  saw  his  May-day  queen,  he  loved  me,  and 
promised  to  marry  me.  Often  beneath  that  very  moon, 
mother,  has  he  sat  and  told  me  his  love.  When  I  smiled 
at  his  protestations,  he  would  speak  of  his  wealth,  and  teU 


284  THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.   HUBERT'S. 

me  of  hidden  stores  of  gold,  for  a  thrifty  and  a  rich  man  is 
the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's.  I  do  not  love  him  less  because 
he  does  not  frown  upon  our  wandering  tribe,  but  has  lax 
principles  that  suit  the  fiery  passions  of  our  race.  I  know 
not  in  what  consists  the  art  by  which  he  won  me  ;  it  is 
enough  for  me  to  know  that  I  am  devoted  to  him.  Alas ! 
that  knowledge  is  too  much,  since  he  has  owned  the  fasci 
nation  of  the  Queen  of  the  May." 

"  Enough  said,  daughter ! "  cried  the  crone.  "  Before  the 
altar  he  shall  marry  you.  He  shall  love  you  better  than 
he  loves  the  May  queen.  What  are  her  attractions  when 
compared  to  yours  ?  Praise  from  the  old  is  little  to  the 
young ;  yet  let  me  say  that  I  have  wandered  east  and  west, 
north  and  south ;  have  seen  the  Georgian  and  Sicilian  maids, 
have  seen  the  dark-haired  girls  of  Naples,  and  the  donnas 
of  Madrid ;  yet  never  did  these  aged  eyes  rest  on  a  finer 
form  or  face  than  yours,  my  daughter." 

The  gypsy  girl  smiled. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  now  you  look  lovelier  than 
ever.  That  smile  is  like  a  sunbeam  to  my  heart ;  it  thaws 
the  frost  of  age.  Believe  me,  Myra,  the  sexton  of  St.  Hu 
bert's  shall  adore  you." 

"  Then  you  must  have  love  charms,"  said  the  gypsy  girl, 
blushing. 

"  Love  charms  I  have,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  and  those 
of  wondrous  potency.  We  are  a  favored  race,  Myra.  De 
scended  from  the  old  Egyptians,  we  inherit  their  mysterious 
learning.  To  a  few  among  us,  the  queens  and  magi  of  our 
tribes,  there  has  come  down  a  knowledge  of  charms  and 
medicine,  and  some  of  the  secrets  of  astrology.  Go, 
Myra ;  leave  me.  I  will  provide  for  your  peace.  Yes, 
yes,  I  have  love  charms.  I  have  them ! " 


THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.   HUBERT'S.  285 

The  gypsy  girl  smiled,  rose,  kissed  the  hand  of  her  grand 
mother,  and  then  bounded  away  like  a  fawn. 

"  Poor  child ! "  muttered  the  old  woman,  when  alone ; 
"  she  must  not  die  of  a  broken  heart.  Love  charms,  did  she 
say !  Yes  —  I  have  them  for  fools  ;  but  the  love  charm  I 
shall  use  to  give  her  joy  is  poison.  The  betrothed  bride 
of  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's  lies  ill  of  an  unknown  mala 
dy.  The  physicians  cannot  do  her  good,  for  she  is  sick  of 
a  wounded  heart.  To-night  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's, 
who  has  faith  in  my  skill,  comes  to  seek  a  remedy.  He 
shall  have  one.  Does  he  think  to  spurn  the  poor  gypsy 
girl  ?  He  is  mistaken.  He  plighted  his  troth  to  her  in 
the  silence  of  the  forest ;  they  broke  a  piece  of  gold  across 
a  running  brook ;  they  swore  truth  and  fidelity  !  One  has 
broken  the  oath,  but  it  shall  be  sworn  anew.  None  but 
Myra  shall  wed  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's ! " 


CHAPTER  HI. 
RETRIBUTION. 

IT  was  a  fierce  and  stormy  night.  The  wind  howled 
around  the  houses  of  Redwood,  and  wherever  a  shutter  had 
lost  its  fastening,  it  flapped  to  and  fro  with  a  frequent  and 
alarming  sound.  The  rain,  too,  descended  in  torrents,  and 
flooded  the  streets  of  the  village,  while  ever  and  anon 
heavy  peals  of  thunder  and  vivid  flashes  of  lightning  in 
creased  the  terror  of  the  night.  In  the  house  of  Farmer 
Ellis  a  few  persons  were  assembled  to  witness  the  bridal 
of  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's.  The  bridegroom  was  as  one 
excited  by  wine,  for  there  was  a  wild  radiance  in  his  eyes 


286  THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.    HUBERT'S. 

and  an  unwonted  smile  upon  his  lips,  and  he  occasional!^ 
gave  utterance  to  some  jest,  and  when  it  failed  of  producing 
the  expected  mirth,  his  own  laugh  sounded  hollow  and 
strange.  The  bride,  too,  so  pearly  pale,  in  her  white  dress, 
with  white  roses  in  her  hair,  seemed  like  the  bride  of  Cor 
inth  in  the  German  tale.  A  few  of  the  guests,  huddled 
anxiously  together,  whispered  among  themselves,  "  It  is  a 
churchyard  bridal." 

Still  the  cake  and  wine  went  round,  and  the  strange 
laugh  of  the  bridegroom  was  more  frequent.  The  night 
wore  on,  and  the  arrival  of  the  clergyman  was  prolonged 
far  beyond  the  expected  time.  At  length  he  came,  and  the 
ceremony  was  about  to  take  place,  when  the  bride  suddenly 
gank  in  the  arms  of  her  companions.  They  raised  her,  and 
applied  the  usual  remedies  resorted  to  in  cases  of  fainting, 
but  the  vital  spark  itself  had  fled. 

In  the  depth  of  a  stormy  night,  the  sexton  of  St.  Hu 
bert's  sought  the  queen  of  the  gypsies.  He  was  mounted 
on  an  active  horse,  and  accompanied  by  the  sheriff  of  the 
county  and  a  few  resolute  men,  well  mounted  and  armed 
to  the  teeth.  As  he  approached  the  river  which  bounded 
the  gypsy  camp  upon  one  side,  the  sexton  looked  in  vain  for 
a  guiding  light —  no  fires  blazed  upon  the  green,  no  hidden 
glare  was  reflected  in -the  mirror  of  the  stream.  Still  he 
spurred  on  his  horse,  and  followed  hard  by  his  companions, 
gallantly  forded  the  stream  and  crossed  the  open  meadows. 
The  tents  had  all  been  struck,  and  no  sound  was  heard  in 
that  deserted  place,  except  the  rushing  of  the  boisterous 
wind  and  the  tinkling  of  the  raindrops  as  they  fell  upon 
the  river.  The.  parties  reined  up  their  horses,  and  the 
sexton  and  the  sheriff  held  a  brief  conference  together. 
While  they  were  yet  conversing,  a  broad  and  brilliant  blaze 
ehot  up  from  the  centre  of  the  forest,  illuminating  a  wide 


THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.   HUBERT'S.  287 

and  well-trodden  path  which  led  directly  to  the  light* 
The  first  flash  of  radiance  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the  horse 
men,  but  when  they  became  accustomed  to  the  glare,  they 
beheld  distinctly  several  wild  forms  lounging  around  the 
fire,  evidently  unconscious  of  the  approach  of  danger. 

"  Now  is  our  time,  my  lads,"  said  the  sheriff,  in  a  low 
tone.  "  Forward,  and  we  shall  have  them  all." 

Every  rowel  was  instantly  employed,  and  the  party 
pushed  forward  at  a  gallop.  Bowing  their  heads  to  avoid 
the  swaying  branches,  they  bent  over  their  horses'  necks  in 
the  intense  ardor  of  pursuit.  The  sheriff  and  the  sexton 
rode  side  by  side,  and  had  nearly  attained  their^  object, 
when  their  horses  fell  suddenly,  and  threw  them  to  the 
ground  with  violence.  In  fine,  the  whole  party  had  stum 
bled  upon  pitfalls  dug  for  them,  and  not  a  horseman  of  the 
troop  escaped  an  overthrow.  While  they  were  rolling  on 
the  ground,  entangled  in  the  stirrups,  and  receiving  severe 
injuries  from  the  struggling  horses,  a  shrill  cry  arose  from 
the  depth  of  the  woods,  and  a  dozen  stout  ruffians  set  upon 
them,  seized,  and  pinioned  them.  The  sexton  and  the 
sheriff  were  conducted  by  two  of  the  gang  to  the  presence 
of  the  gypsy  queen,  who  sat  upon  a  rude  form  raised  upon 
the  trunk  of  a  huge  oak,  and  sheltered  by  an  ample  awn 
ing  of  oiled  cloth.  The  sheriff's  followers  were  borne 
away  in  another  direction.  The  wild  woman  and  her 
wilder  attendants  were  perfectly  distinct  in  the  ruddy  fire 
light,  though  the  whole  scene  had,  to  the  eyes  of  the  vic 
tims,  the  appearance  of  a  vision  of  night. 

"  Well,  sirs,"  said  the  queen,  "  you  came  to  see  us,  and 
you  have  found  us.  Have  you  not  some  message  for  us  ? 
You  myrmidon  of  the  law,  have  you  no  greeving  for  the 
queen  of  the  gypsies  ?  " 

The  sheriff  looked  at  the  queen  and  then  at  her  attend- 


288  THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.    HUBERT'S. 

ants.  They  were  fierce-looking,  unshorn  fellows,  with 
butchers'  knives  stuck  in  their  rope  girdles,  and  seemed 
but  to  await  a  nod  from  her  tawny  majesty  to  employ  their 
formidable  weapons. 

"  Have  you  nothing  for  us  ?  "  asked  the  dark  lady. 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  sheriff,  faintly. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  "  laughed  the  wrinkled  crone.  "  The  man  of 
law  is  forgetful.  You,  Dommerar,  search  him,  and  see  if 
he  speaks  the  truth." 

A  sandy-haired  little  fellow  advanced  at  the  summons, 
and  rifled  the  pockets  of  the  sheriff  with  a  dexterity  which 
proved  him  an  adept  in  the  business.  A  teacher  of  music 
would  have  envied  his  fingering.  Having  caused  the 
pockets  of  the  sheriff  to  disgorge,  he  thus,  in  the  canting 
language,  enumerated  their  contents  :  — 

"  The  moabite's  ribbin  runs  thin,  (the  sheriff's  cash  runs 
low.)  He  has  no  mint,  (gold,)  and  only  a  mopus  or  two." 

"  Fool !  "  said  the  queen,  "  has  he  no  paper  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  missus,  here's  his  fiddle"  (writ,)  was  the 
answer. 

"  Give  it  me,"  cried  the  queen.  "  Here,  you  patrico, 
our  eyes  are  bad.  Read  this  scrawl,  and  acquaint  us  with 
the  contents." 

The  patrico,  or  hedge  priest,  a  fellow  in  a  rusty,  black 
suit,  with  a  beard  of  three  weeks'  growth,  bleared  eyes, 
and  a  red,  Bardolph  nose,  took  the  writ,  which  he  had  more 
difficulty  in  reading  than  Tony  Lumpkin,  when  he  received 
the  letter  of  Hastings.  At  first,  he  held  it  upside  down, 
then  reversed  it,  looking  at  it  at  arm's  length,  and  then 
gave  it  a  closer  scrutiny.  He  finally  gave  it  as  his  opinion, 
that  it  empowered  the  queer-cuffin  (so  he  termed  the 
sheriff)  to  seize  upon  the  so  called  queen  of  the  gypsies, 
accused  <rf  the  crime  of  murder,  and  also  to  apprehend  her 


THE    SEXTON    OF   ST.    HUBERT'S.  289 

followers.  When  he  had  concluded,  the  old  crone  snatched 
the  writ  from  his  hand,  and,  tearing  it  to  pieces,  flung  the 
fragments  into  the  face  of  the  sheriff. 

"  Take  him  away,"  said  she,  "  and  leave  us  alone  with 
the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's.  Guard  him  well,  for  we  wish 
to  show  him  how  we  administer  justice  among  us.  We 
will  be  judge  and  jury,  and  our  upright  man  shall  be  the 
executioner." 

She  waved  her  tawny  hand  with  the  air  of  a  princess 
dismissing  her  courtiers,  and  her  mandate  was  obeyed. 
She  was  left  alone  with  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's.  Look 
ing  him  steadily  in  the  face,  she  said,  — 

"  John  Pembroke,  I  give  you  joy  of  your  marriage." 

"  Wretched  woman  !  "  said  the  sexton,  "  you  poisoned 
her.  By  your  hand  she.  died." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  answered  the  old  woman,  with  a 
bitter  smile.  "  She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth.  You  see  the 
devil  can  quote  Scripture.  It  was  my  first  intention  to 
have  poisoned  her ;  but  my  second  thoughts  were  better. 
So,  instead  of  the  medicine  you  sought,  I  gave  you  a  pow 
erful  narcotic,  which  has  thrown  her  into  a  deep  steep. 
She  lies,  at  this  moment,  you  know,  in  the  chapel  of  St. 
Hubert's.  There  are  flowers  on  her  coffin,  and  there  is  a 
shroud  around  her.  If  I  am  not  very  much  mistaken, 
about  this  hour  she  awakes." 

"  And  perishes !  Fiend  in  human  shape,  how  you  have 
deceived  me !  At  this  hour,  remote  from  help,  my  Mar 
garet  is  dying." 

"  She  is  not  your  Margaret,  neither  is  she  dying,"  said 

the  crone.     "  Listen  to  me.     I  sent  a  trusty  messenger  to 

him  that  Margaret  loves  —  to  him  who  loves  her  fondly  and 

faithfully  —  and  if  all  things  have  gone  as  well  as  I  antici- 

25 


290  THE    SEXTON    OP    ST.    HUBERT'S. 

pate,  by  this  time  she  is  in  his  arms.  The  draught  she 
drank  is  harmless." 

"  Cursed  deceiver ! "  cried  the  sexton,  struggling  fran 
tically  to  free  himself  from  the  ligatures  which  bound  him. 
"  You  have  done  an  accursed  deed.  You  have  deprived 
me  of  my  betrothed  bride." 

"  Your  betrothed  bride  !"  said  the  queen  of  the  gypsies. 
"  Behold  her ! "  She  waved  her  hand,  and  Myra  stood 
before  the  sexton  of  St.  Hubert's.  "  There  she  stands," 
said  the  gypsy.  "  Have  you  forgotten  that  your  troth  is 
plighted  to  her  ?  The  bride  and  the  priest  are  ready. 
Man  of  guilt  and  passion,  wed  her  you  may,  wed  her  you 
must ! " 

"  Never !  "  cried  the  sexton.  "  When  I  sought  your 
lawless  crew  to  indulge  my  love  of  revelling  and  pleasure, 
the  person  of  Myra  lighted  a  fire  in  my  breast.  But  it 
was  an  unholy  flame.  I  will  never  marry  her.  Let  her 
live  —  live  to  be  branded  with  infamy  and  disgrace ! " 

"  Ha  ! "  cried  the  crone,  rising  from  her  seat.  "  Is  it  so  ? 
Speak,  Myra !  child  of  my  heart,  is  it  so  ?  " 

The  gypsy  girl  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  hung  her 
head  in  shame.  Her  cheeks  were  suffused  with  crimson ; 
then  they  became  deadly  pale,  and  she  sank  lifeless  on  the 
ground. 

"  You  have  killed  her !  "  shrieked  the  gypsy  queen, 
"  and  dearly  shall  you  rue  it." 

She  placed  a  whistle  to  her  lips,  and  blew  a  shrill  blast. 
But  she  received  a  far  different  answer  than  she  had  anti 
cipated  ;  for  one  of  the  sheriff's  men  had  succeeded  in 
escaping  from  the  hands  of  the  gypsy  crew,  and  galloped 
to  the  neighboring  town,  where  a  troop  of  horse  was  quar 
tered.  The  commanding  officer  instantly  repaired  to  the 
gypsy  camp,  where  he  arrived  in  time  to  apprehend  the 


THE    SEXTON    OF    ST.    HUBERT'S.  291 

crew  before  they  had  committed  any  act  of  violence.  The 
sexton  of  St.  Hubert's  did  not  long  survive  this  night,  and 
Myra  became  a  maniac.  The  fate  of  the  lovers  we  shall 
next  describe. 

When  the  lover  of  Margaret  received  the  message  of 
the  queen  of  the  gypsies,  he  repaired  to  the  spot  where 
his  mistress  lay,  to  all  appearance,  in  the  arms  of  death. 
But  life  had  not  departed ;  and  even  as  he  hung  gazing 
over  her,  a  faint  color  mounted  to  her  cheek,  and  her  bosom 
began  to  heave  beneath  her  white  garment.  He  raised  her 
in  his  arms,  bore  her  to  the  air,  and  she  revived.  When 
her  senses  were  fully  restored,  she  consented  to  guard 
against  another  separation  by  marrying  her  lover  and 
savior.  William  had  provided  a  humble  post-chaise  to  con 
vey  his  bride  far  from  the  scene  of  her  past  perils  and  temp 
tations.  They  journeyed  by  slow  stages  to  the  north,  and 
at  the  close  of  a  few  days  entered  a  romantic  village.  The 
lover  bridegroom  pointed-out  a  gray  and  noble  old  pile,  the 
turrets  of  which  rose  lofty  above  the  waving  trees  of  an 
ancient  park.  He  asked  if  she  should  like  to  visit  it.  She 
replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  they  drove,  unchallenged, 
through  the  gateway  and  along  a  noble  avenue  shaded  by 
huge  oaks.  When  they  reached  the  portals  of  the  build 
ing,  the  post-boy  stopped  the  horses,  dismounted,  tlitew 
open  the  door  of  the  chaise,  and  let  down  the  steps.  Wil 
liam  lifted  his  companion  from  her  seat  in  his  arms. 

"  Margaret,"  said  he,  "  look  up.  This  is  Woodley  Castle, 
and  you  are  Lady  Armitage." 


JACK  WITHERS. 

EVERY  body  liked  Jack  "Withers.  He  was  a  handsome, 
active  young  fellow  of  five-and-twenty,  of  a  good  family,  an 
orphan,  who  came  into  possession  of  thirty  thousand  dollars 
when  he  came  of  age.  In  this  age  of  California  gold,  when 
fortunes  are  made  by  shovelling  dust,  and  the  wonders  of 
Aladdin's  treasure  house  are  realized  by  men  of  no  capi 
tal  but  pickaxes  and  muscles,  thirty  thousand  dollars  does 
not  seem  a  prodigious  sum.  Yet  our  great-grandfathers 
retired  from  business  on  that  amount,  and  were  thought,  at 
least,  comfortably  well  off;  and  even  nowadays,  thirty 
thousand  dollars,  judiciously  managed,  will  keep  a  man  out 
of  the  poorhouse,  and  give  him  a  clean  shirt  and  a  leg  of 
mutton  for  his  lifetime.  But  poor  Jack  was  not  a  judicious 
manager,  and  a  tandem  team  and  champagne  suppers,  with 
a  shooting-box  and  turf  speculations,  soon  made  ducks  and 
drakes  of  a  little  fortune.  Thus  at  twenty-five,  our  friend 
Jack  was  minus  ;  or,  in  the  elegant  phraseology  of  the  day, 
"  a  gentleman  at  large  with  pockets  to  let." 

When  a  man's  riches  have  taken  wings  and  vamosed, 
when  all  his  old  uncles  are  used  up,  and  he  has  no  pros 
pective  legacy  to  fall  back  upon,  he  is  generally  cut  by  the 
acquaintances  of  his  prosperous  days.  The  memory  of 
"what  he  used  to  was"  is  seldom  cherished,  and  the  un 
happy  victim  of  prodigality  discovers  to  his  sorrow,  that 

292 


JACK    WITHERS.  293 

"  'Tis  a  rery  good  world  that  we  live  in, 
To  lend,  or  to  spend,  or  to  give  in  ; 
But  to  beg,  or  to  borrow,  or  get  a  man's  own, 
'Tis  the  very  worst  world,  sir,  that  ever  was  known." 

Jack,  however,  was  not  destined  to  drink  the  cup  of  this 
bitter  experience.  He  was  just  as  popular  and  just  as  much 
courted  without  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  as  he  was  when  he 
possessed  the  means  to  be  extravagant,  when,  he 

"  Spread  to  the  liberal  air  his  silken  sails, 

And  lavished  guineas  like  a  Prince  of  Wales." 

The  secret  of  his  prodigious  popularity  was  his  obliging 
disposition.  His  time  and  talents  —  and  he  had  plenty  of  the 
former,  and  no  lack  of  the  latter  —  were  always  at  the  ser 
vice  of  his  friends  ;  and  though  the  idlest  dog  in  the  world 
when  his  own  affairs  were  in  question,  in  the  cause  of  his 
friends  he  was  the  busiest  man  alive.  Thus  he  fairly  won 
his  dinners,  his  rides,  his  drives,  and  his  opera  tickets  — 
they  were  trifling  commissions  on  his  benevolent  trans 
actions. 

"Jack,"  one  fellow  would  say,  "my  horse  is  too  con 
foundedly  high  strung,  and  only  half  broke.  He  threw  me 
yesterday." 

"I'll  ride  him  for  you,  Bill,"  would  be  the  ready  reply  ; 
"  give  me  your  spurs,  and  I'll  give  him  a  lesson." 

And  away  he  would  go,  without  a  thought  of  his  neck,  to 
mount  a  restive  rascal  that  had  half  killed  the  rough  rider 
of  a  cavalry  regiment. 

"  Jack,"  another  would  say,  "  I've  got  an  awkward  affair 

on  hand  with  Lieutenant ;  he  fancies  I've   insulted 

him,  and  has  thrown  out  dark  hints  about  coffee  and  pistols." 

"  Make  yourself  perfectly  easy,  my  boy  ;  I'll  bring  him 
to  reason  or  fight  him  myself." 

25*  T 


294  JACK    WITHERS. 

So  Jack  had  his  hands  full  of  business.  Well,  one  dreary, 
desolate  afternoon  in  March,  when  the  barbs  of  all  the  vanes 
in  the  city  were  looking  pertinaciously  eastward,  and  people 
were  shivering  over  anthracite  grates,  Jack  Withers  "  might 
have  been  seen,"  as  James  would  say,  seated  in  the  little 
back  parlor  of  the  coffee  room  in  School  Street,  sipping 
Mocha  with  his  particular  friend  Bill  Bliffins,  who  had  an 
especial  claim  upon  his  kindness,  from  the  fact  that  he  had 
already  extricated  Bill  from  scrapes  innumerable. 

Mocha  is  a  great  prompter  of  social  and  kindly  feelings, 
and  prompts,  in  tete-d-tetes,  to  that  unreserved  confidence 
on  one  part,  and  that  obliging  interest  on  the  other,  which 
unite  two  congenial  and  kindred  spirits  in  adamantine  bonds. 

"  Jack,"  said  Bill,  'smiting  the  marble  table  emphatically, 
"  you  are  my  best  friend." 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  you  flatter  me,"  said  Jack,  blushing  like  a 
peony  ;  "  I've  never  done  any  thing  for  you." 

"  Yes,  you  have,  and  you  know  it,"  persisted  Bliffms. 
"  Didn't  you  fight  Lieutenant  Jenkins,  of  the  Salamander, 
when  I  ought  to  have  fought  him  myself?  Haven't  you 
endorsed  my  notes  when  nobody  else  would  back  my 
paper?  " 

"  I'll  do  it  again,  my  boy,"  said  Jack,  with  a  gush  of  en 
thusiastic  feeling. 

"  Ahem  !  your  name  on  short  or  long  paper  isn't  exactly 
ivhut  it  used  to  be,"  said  Bill,  rather  unfeelingly,  perhaps. 

"  True,  true,"  returned  Jack,  in  a  more  subdued  tone ; 
ft  I  haven't  got  many  friends  left  in  the  synagogues." 

"  But  what  you  have  done,  Jack,"  continued  Bliffins,  with 
rnthusiasm,  "  emboldens  me  to  trespass  yet  further  on  your 
patience.'' 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Jack ;  and  there  was  no  reser- 


JACK   WITHERS.  295 

vation  implied  in  the  hearty  tone  in  which  the  words  were 
uttered. 

"  Then  listen  to  my  story,  as  the  postilion  of  Longju- 
meau  sings.  Hear  me  for  my  cause,  and  be  silent  that  you 
may  hear." 

"  I'll  be  mute  as  the  codfish  in  the  House  of  Represent 
atives." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Bill,  in  a  solemn  tone,  "  I'm  dead 
broke." 

"Dead  broke?" 

"  Yes  ;  I'm  running  on  my  last  hundred." 

« Impossible  ! " 

"  True,  though,  for  all  that.  Yet  my  circumstances  are 
not  so  desperate,  either.  There's  a  vacant  clerkship  in 
the  secretary  of  state's  office ;  and  the  governor  has  been 
sounded,  and  I  think  he  might  be  disposed  to  give  it  to  me." 

"  Go  to  him  at  once,  then,  my  dear  boy.  If  he  wants  any 
reference,  send  him  to  me.  I'll  endorse  your  character,  as 
I  used  to  your  paper  when  my  name  was  worth  something 
on  'change.  Go  to  him  at  once." 

"  It's  easy  to  say  it,  Jack  ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  I  have 
such  a  confounded  hesitating  address  that  I  fear  I  should 
make  an  unfavorable  impression,  and  ruin  my  cause ; 
whereas,  if  a  plausible,  voluble  fellow  like  yourself  could 
get  his  ear  and  plead  for  me,  my  appointment  would  be 
certain.  Now  will  you " 

"  Call  on  the  governor  ?  With  all  my  heart  —  consider 
the  thing  settled." 

"  That's  not  all ;  you  must  be  my  advocate  in  another 
quarter.  I'm  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  Juliet  Trevor 
—  Trapp  &  Trevor — W.  I.  Goods,  wholesale.  You 
the  firm?" 

«  Like  a  book." 


296  JACK    WITHERS. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  the  girl  and  the  old  people ;  1 
haven't  confidence  to  propose  in  person.  You  can  do  it 
forme?" 

"  With  all  my  heart.  I  give  you  joy  of  the  clerkship 
and  the  girl  —  they're  yours." 

"  I'm  eternally  obliged,  Jack." 

"  Not  the  least,  my  boy  —  always  ready  to  serve  my 
friends.  By  the  way,  have  you  got  any  money  about  your 
clothes  ?  I  invited  you  to  take  coffee,  but  I  forgot  my 
purse  in  my  other  trousers  —  no  change,  you  know." 

"  There,  get  this  V  changed,"  said  Bliffins,  handing  him 
a  bank  note. 

Jack  took  the  note  and  walked  up  to  the  counter. 

"  Coffee  and  pie  for  two,  my  dear  "  said  he  to  the  at 
tendant.  "  It's  all  right  —  you  know  me  —  pay  next  time 
—  Withers  and  friend.  Come,  Bill,  I've  fixed  it." 

"  But  the  change  ! "  said  Bill. 

"  Never  mind  the  change  —  morrow  do  as  well.  By,  by, 
•—  au  revoir" 

"  Remember  the  governor  ! " 

"  All  right,  my  boy." 

"And  Juliet!" 

"  Make  yourself  easy." 

So  they  parted.  The  next  day,  Jack  sent  in  his  card  to 
"the  governor  at  the  Adams  House,  and  followed  the  paste 
board  before  the  message  could  be  returned.  The  govern 
or  received  his  visitor  with  his  usual  urbanity. 

"  Good  quarters,  governor ! "  said  Jack,  looking  round 
him  as  he  dropped  into  a  rocking  chair,  and  tapped  his 
boot  with  his  walking  stick.  "  Chief  magistrate  of  the 
commonwealth  —  well  lodged  —  people  pay  —  all  right." 

The  governor  was  much  amused  at  the  coolness  of  hia 


JACK    WITHERS.  297 

guest,  and  waited  patiently  to  learn  his  Business.     He  was 
not  kept  long  in  suspense. 

"  Governor,"  said  Jack,  "  I  come  to  solicit  your  favor 
not  on  my  behalf,  but  in  the  cause  of  friendship  —  sacred 
friendship  —  holy  bond  of  two  congenial  hearts,  &c.  —  but 
you  know  all  that.  My  friend,  sir,  William  Bliffins  —  un 
fortunate  young  man  —  reduced  in  circumstances  —  good 
family  —  good  blood  —  grandfather  in  the  revolution  — 
soil  of  Bunker  Hill  irrigated  with  the  blood  of  Bliffins  — 
but  you  know  all  that  —  run  through  his  fortune  —  on  the 
town  —  not  a  penny  —  hard  case." 

u  Do  you  solicit  charity,  sir,  for  your  friend  ?  " 
"  Not  exactly  —  official  favor  —  vacant  clerkship  —  sec 
retary's   office  —  make  him  comfortable  —  but  you   know 
all  that." 

"  Really,  sir,  you  run  on  at  such  a  rate " 

"  Way  I've  got  —  few  leading  points  all  you  want  — 
time  precious  —  money  (old  saw)  —  Bliffins  —  clerkship 

—  don't  you  take  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  recollect  the  name,  now.  But  I  must  inquire 
into  the  character  of  the  applicant.  How  did  he  lose  his 
fortune?" 

"Unbounded   benevolence  —  heart  like  an  ox — bigger 

—  endorsing  notes  for  friends  —  founding  hospitals  for  in 
digent   Africans  —  temperance   movement  —  philanthropy 
expensive  —  but  you  know  all  that." 

"  The  office  in  question  requires  a  good  penman.  Can 
your  friend  write  well  ?  " 

"  Splendid  hand  —  copperplate  —  currente  calamo  — 
shine  in  your  eyes." 

"  Have  you  a  specimen  of  his  penmanship  ?  " 

"  Cords  at  home  —  some  in  pocket.  Here  you  have  it ! 
no,  that's  my  washerwoman's  bilL  Ah,  here  it  is  !  "  and 


298  JACK    WITHERS. 

Jack  pulled  out  a  crumpled  note,  and  placed  it  before  tha 
governor. 

The  governor  scanned  the  document  curiously,  and  with 
great  difficulty  deciphered  the  following  words,  which  he 
read  silently :  — 

"  Dear  Jack,  —  Fashion  has  been  beaten,  and  I  lost  on 
the  mare.  I  shall  back  Tom  Hyer  to  the  extent  of  my 
pile.  He  is  training  finely.  Bricks  has  a  couple  of  Santa 
Anna's  game  cocks  for  me,  on  board  the  Karitan,  at  Lewis's 
wharf.  Can  you  run  down  and  get  'em  from  the  steward  ? 
Yrs,  &c." 

The  governor  smiled  as  he  handed  back  the  note,  but 
made  no  remark. 

"  Where  can  I  communicate  with  you,  sir?  "  he  asked. 

"  Dog  and  Thistle,  Blackstone  Street.  I'll  write  my  ad 
dress." 

So  Jack  wrote  his  address  card,  (by  the  way,  he  wrote  a 
splendid  hand,)  and  took  his  leave  of  the  governor. 

From  the  Adams  House  he  posted  to  Louisburg  Square, 
where  the  Trevors  were  living  in  great  style.  Slightly  ac 
quainted  with  Miss  Trevor,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  being 
admitted  to  her  presence.  After  rattling  over  a  few  com 
monplace  topics,  he  came  to  the  object  of  his  mission. 

"  Have  you  seen  Bliffins  lately  ?  " 

"  Not  very,"  replied  the  fair  one,  languidly. 

"  Dying,  ma'am,  dying." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     What's  the  matter,  sir  ?  " 

"  Love  —  desperation  —  patience  on  a  monument  couldn't 
sit  there  forever  —  heart  ache  —  only  ons  thing  to  save 
him." 

"  Indeed  !  and  what  is  that  ?  " 

"  He  loves  you,  madam,  passionately,  devotedly,  enor 
mously  —  Petrarch,  Abelard,  lukewarm  lovers  in  compari- 


JACK    WITHERS.  299 

son.  Throws  himself  at  your  feet  —  save  him  !  —  marry 
him  quick  !  or  you'll  lose  him  !  —  say  yes." 

"  Sir,  my  father  will  communicate  with  you,"  said  the 
lady,  rising  to  terminate  the  interview. 

"Dog  and  Thistle,  Blackstone  Street,"  said  Jack,  and 
bowed  himself  away. 

The  next  day  Jack  and  Bill  were  again  seated  together 
in  a  small  room  at  the  Dog  and  Thistle,  waiting  the  result  of 
the  obliging  operations  of  the  former.  In  a  few  moments 
a  waiter  brought  in  a  note,  superscribed  John  Withers, 
Esq.  Jack  tore  it  open,  and  read  as  follows  :  — 

"  Sir,  —  In  answer  to  your  application  yesterday,  I  am 
sorry  to  return  you  an  unfavorable  reply ;  but  the  chirog- 
raphy  of  the  person  you  recommended,  to  say  nothing  of 
other  considerations,  unfits  him  for  the  vacancy  in  question. 
Having  made  inquiries  with  regard  to  yourself,  and  find 
ing  that  you  are  in  circumstances  which  might  render  em 
ployment  acceptable,  while  your  conduct  proves  that  you 
have  sincerely  repented  of  the  follies  of  your  early  years, 
I  have  concluded  to  request  your  acceptance  of  the  office 
yourself.  If  you  accept  the  offer,  please  report  yourself 
to-morrow. 

"  Yours,  respectfully, 


"  Governor  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts." 

"  You're  an  impostor !  "  shouted  Bliffins.  "  Is  this  your 
friendship  ?  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Jack,  ruefully.  "  I'm  innocent  — 
I  did  the  best  I  could  for  you." 

"  How  did  he  know  any  thing  about  my  penmanship  ?  '' 


300  JACK    WITHERS. 

"  I  showed  him  this  note,"  said  the  unhappy  Jack,  pro 
ducing  the  document. 

"That  note.?  You've  ruined  me!  Do  you  know  what 
it  was  about  ?  " 

"  I'd  forgotten." 

"Why,  it  was  all  about  horseracing,  pugilism,  and  coc£ 
fighting,  you  jackass  !  " 

"  Letter  for  Mr.  Bliffins ! "  said  the  waiter,  entering  with 
another  epistle.  Bliffins  read  it  aloud. 

"  Mr.  William  Bliffins. 

"  Sir  :  In  answer  to  application  of  your  friend,  yester 
day,  for  daughter's  hand,  have  to  reply  for  daughter,  and 
say  that  the  honor  is  respectfully  declined.  Had  you  ob 
tained  the  office  you  applied  for,  might  have  treated  with 
you.  Daughter  requests  me  to  say  that  she  could  not 
have  done  so  in  any  case. 

"  Your  ob't  servant, 

J.  TREVOR." 

"  P.  S.     Please  hand  the  enclosed  to  Mr.  Withers." 

The  "  enclosed  "  was  an  invitation  to  a  grand  ball  given 
by  the  Trevors  on  the  ensuing  night. 

After  overwhelming  his  friend  with  anathemas,  Bliffins 
rushed  wildly  from  the  Dog  and  Thistle,  and  enlisted  in  the 
second  dragoons. 

Jack  Withers,  who  had  never  before  looked  out  for  num 
ber  one,  now  became  so  "  obliging  "  as  to  take  care  of  that 
neglected  personage.  He  became  a  praiseworthy  clerk,  and 
a  steady  man  of  business.  He  went  to  the  ball  and  polked 
himself  into  the  good  graces  of  Miss  Juliet  Trevor.  The 
old  gentleman  and  lady  smiled  upon  their  loves,  and  in  due 


JACK    WITHERS.  801 

time  he  was  united  to  the  object  of  his  affections,  securing 
thereby  a  handsome  and  amiable  wife,  and  an  independent 
fortune,  which  she  insisted  on  settling  upon  her  husband 
on  the  wedding  day.  There  is  no  fear  of  Jack's  relapsing 
into  his  old  habits  of  extravagance ;  and  while  he  is  still  as 
popular  as  ever,  he  never  neglects  his  own  affairs  for  those 
of  other  people. 

26 


THE   SILVER  HAMMER, 

THE  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west,  and  gilding  with  its 
slant  beams  a  pastoral  landscape,  as  a  young  soldier,  weary 
and  footsore,  slowly  toiled  along  a  lonely  road  that  ran  par 
allel  with  the  course  of  the  bright  and  winding  Seine.  A 
dusty  foraging  cap  rested  on  his  dark  locks,  and  his  youth 
ful  form  bent  beneath  the  weight  of  a  well-filled  knapsack. 
Pierre  Lacour  had  served  with  honor  in  that  glorious  little 
band  of  heroes,  which,  under  the  leadership  of  the  youth 
ful  Bonaparte,  had  crossed  the  snow-clad  Alps,  and  fallen 
like  an  avalanche  upon  the  plains  of  Lombardy,  sweeping 
before  it  the  veteran  troops  of  Austria,  and  astonishing  all 
Europe  by  unparalleled  audacity  and  unexampled  succes., 
Pierre  had  marched  farther  on  that  day  than  he  had  ever 
done  while  following  the  colors  of  his  regiment  —  but  he 
was  on  his  way  home,  and  he  longed  to  see  his  mother,  his 
fair  young  sister  Maria,  and  a  lovely  maiden,  named  Es- 
telle,  dearer  to  his  heart  than  all  beside.  They  had  news 
of  his  coming,  —  at  least,  Maria  and  his  mother  had,  —  and 
he  had  sent  them  in  advance,  by  a  sure  hand,  a  large 
amount  of  money,  his  share  of  the  spoils  of  battle  honorably 
won  —  enough,  in  short,  to  give  a  dowry  to  his  sister,  and 
enable  him  to  demand  the  reward  of  all  his  toils  and  dangers 
.—  the  hand  of  his  betrothed. 


THE    SILVER   HAMMER.  303 

His  heart  beat  quick  as  he  climbed  the  last  vine-clad  hill 
which  separated  him  from  his  native  valley.  A  few  steps 
more  would  bring  him  to  the  summit,  whence  his  eye  would 
rest  on  the  neat  whitewashed  cottage,  with  its  surrounding 
palings,  and  trim  garden  ;  and  there,  perhaps,  at  the  rustic 
gate,  he  should  see  the  well-known  figures  of  his  mother 
and  sister.  Far  as  he  had  travelled,  he  sprang  up  the  as 
cent  with  a  buoyant  step,  and  soon  gained  the  eminence. 
The  cottage  lay  full  in  view,  but  though  it  was  the  usual 
hcur  for  preparing  the  evening  meal,  no  blue  smoke  wreath 
curled  upward  from  the  chimney.  A  vague  presentiment 
of  evil  weighed  upon  his  heart.  Hastening  to  dispel  the 
dark  and  chilling  fears  that  came  thick  upon  him,  he  hurried 
down  the  slope,  and  soon  passed  through  the  garden  and 
stood  within  the  cottage.  He  called  aloud  —  no  voice 
responded  to  his  cry.  He  rushed  into  the  little  room, 
which  served  at  once  for  kitchen  and  parlor.  It  was  empty 
—  no  fire  burned  upon  the  hearth.  The  humble  furniture 
was  in  strange  disarray.  The  casement,  which  looked  out 
upon  the  garden  was  shattered.  The  walls  and  floor  were 
charred  and  blackened  with  smoke,  as  if  the  house  had 
taken  fire  and  been  saved  with  difficulty.  Pierre  sprang 
up  stairs.  In  neither  of  the  chambers  could  he  find  the 
loved  ones  whom  he  sought  —  only  the  same  scene  of  con 
fusion  and  desolation."  Turning  in  dismay  from  the  spec 
tacle,  he  rushed  out  of  the  cottage  to  make  his  way  to  the 
nearest  neighbors,  and  inquire  into  this  appalling  mystery. 
As  he  hurried  along  —  his  brain  whirling,  his  footsteps  un 
certain  and  unsteady  —  he  stumbled  against  an  aged  man 
of  venerable  appearance,  who  was  coming  in  the  opposite 
direction.  The  young  soldier  halted,  and  touching  his  cap, 
begged  pardon  for  his  involuntary  rudeness. 


SO*  THE    SILVER    HAMMER. 

"  My  poor  Pierre,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  know  too  well 
^the  cause  of  your  forge tfuln ess." 

The  soldier  looked  up  and  recognized  the  familiar  and 
benevolent  features  of  the  good  priest  ol  the  village,  his  old 
tutor  and  pastor. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  cottage,  "  you  have 
•been  there  —  you  know  all  —  tell  me  —  where  are  they  ?  " 

The  old  man's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  he  shook  his 
'acad,  and  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"  Pierre,"  said  he,  "  you  have  read  '  whom  the  Lord  lov- 
eth  he  chasteneth  ? ' " 

The  soldier  bowed  his  head. 

"  Pierre,"  exclaimed  the  good  priest,  "  let  us  sit  down  on 
this  bank.  You  are  a  good  and  brave  boy.  You  can  face 
danger,  and  I  have  sought  to  furnish  you  weapons  to  wage 
war  against  sorrow  and  trial." 

"  You  have  been  a  father  to  me,  sir,"  replied  the  young 
soldier,  complying  with  the  invitation  of  his  pastor,  and  tak 
ing  a  seat  beside  him.  "  I  will  endeavor  to  listen  calmly 
to  all  you  have  to  communicate.  Where  are  my  mother 
and  sister  ?  " 

"  Pierre,"  said  the  old  man,  "  arm  yourself  with  all  your 
fortitude.  You  will  never  see  your  mother  more  till  you 
meet  her  in  that  happier  world,  where  the  wicked  cease 
from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at  rest." 

Pierre  groaned  deeply,  and  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  rocked  his  body  to  and  fro  as  he  burst  into  an  agony 
of  tears.  The  priest  sought  not  to  interrupt  him,  but  turned 
away  his  own  weeping  countenance,  for  the  anguish  of  the 
youth  was  too  painful  to  contemplate. 

At  last  the  poor  soldier  looked  up  and  spoke  again : 
"  What  of  my  poor  sister  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing,"  replied  the  priest ;  "  she  is  gone  — 


THE    SILVER    HAMMER.  305 

whither,  none  can  tell.  A  great  crime  has  been  committed. 
By  whom,  none  knows,  save  God  and  the  perpetrator 
thereof.  You  sent  home  a  large  sum  of  money  to  your 
mother.  She  was  so  overjoyed  at  your  good  fortune,  thai 
she  made  no  secret  of  its  reception,  though  I  cautioned  her 
against  speaking  of  it.  A  fortnight  ago,  the  village  was 
alarmed  by  the  cry  of  fire.  Your  cottage  was  seen  to  be  in 
flames.  The  neighbors  hastened  thither  and  extinguished 
the  blaze.  In  the  smoke  and  confusion  it  was  not  perceived 
at  first  that  murder,  as  well  as  incendiarism,  had  done  its 
foul  work."  The  priest  paused,  overcome  with  agitation. 

"  On !  on !  "  shouted  Pierre,  "  I  can  bear  it  all  now  ! " 

"  Your  poor  mother  was  the  victim,"  continued  the 
priest ;  "  she  lay  on  the  hearthstone  dead  and  bleeding. 
Her  bureau  had  been  broken  open  and  rifled  of  its  con 
tents." 

"  My  sister !  my  sister  !  "  cried  the  soldier. 

"  She  was  gone.  The  whole  surrounding  country  was 
searched,  but  nothing  was  discovered." 

"  Maria !  Maria  !  could  gold  have  tempted  you  ?  No  ! 
no  I  —  dog  that  I  am,  to  suspect  you  !  Misery  has  driven 
me  mad  ! "  cried  the  soldier,  dashing  his  hand  against  his 
forehead. 

"  The  whole  dreadful  crime,"  said  the  old  priest,  "  is 
shrouded  in  a  mystery  as  appalling  as  death  itself.  But 
God  does  not  permit  such  deeds  to  slumber  undetected 
or  unavenged.  Sooner  or  later  they  are  brought  to  light." 

"  May  I  prove  the  instrument  of  detection ! "  said  the 
soldier.  "  Some  of  the  coins  that  I  sent  my  poor  murdered 
mother  were  marked  —  I  could  recognize  them  again. 
Father,  you  shall  take  me  to  my  mother's  grave.  One 
prayer  there  —  one  word  with  Estelle  —  and  then  I  will  go 
to  Paris  ;  it  is  the  resort  of  every  criminal,  and  thence  it 
26* 


806  THE    SILVER   HAMMER. 

Bends  forth  its  crime-blackened  ruffians  to  desecrate  this  fair 
earth  with  horror.  Come,  father,  come  —  my  mother's 
grave  —  lead  me  there  at  once  ! " 

Years  passed  away.  Save  by  two  or  three  persons,  the 
crime  which  had  desecrated  the  hearthstone  of  a  humble 
village  home  was  forgotten  in  those  great  historical  events, 
of  which  Europe  and  France  were  then  the  theatres.  In 
those  days  of  bloodshed  and  battle,  of  victory  and  triumph, 
Pierre  Lacour,  who  had  commenced  his  military  career  as 
a  brave  young  soldier,  might  have  risen  to  the  highest 
honors,  had  he  followed  the  victorious  eagles  of  his  em 
peror.  Why  might  not  he  rise  as  well  as  Murat,  Ney, 
Lannes,  or  a  hundred  others  ?  The  epaulets  of  a  colonel, 
nay,  the  baton  of  a  marshal  of  France,  were  prizes  within 
the  reach  of  the  lowliest,  provided  he  had  the  head  to  plan 
and  the  heart  to  execute  daring  and  chivalric  deeds.  But 
his  heart  no  longer  bounded  like  a  war  horse  to  the  charge 
of  the  trumpet  and  the  roll  of  the  drum.  He  lived  for  one 
purpose  —  to  discover  the  assassin  of  his  mother  and  the 
sister,  of  whom  nothing  had  been  heard  since  the  dread 
ful  night  of  murder  and  conflagration.  To  facilitate  his 
purposes,  he  had  procured  himself  to  be  enrolled  in  the 
unrivalled  police  force  of  Fouche.  That  wily  minister  had 
no  more  able  assistant  under  his  command,  and  none  in 
that  fraternity  (of  which  many  were  miscreants,  who  had 
purchased  impunity  for  crime  by  selling  the  lives  and  lib 
erties  of  former  accomplices  and  comrades)  who  could 
compare  with  him  for  purity  of  life  and  elevation  of  motive. 
To  punish  evil  for  the  sake  of  society,  was  the  aim  of  the 
young  police  officer.  None  EC  ore  untiring  or  intelligent 
than  hi  in  ferreting  out  the  perpetrators  of  deeds  of  vio 
lence.  In  the  criminals  whose  arrest  he  effected,  and 


THE    SILVER    HAMMER.  307 

whose  conviction  he  secured,  he  expected,  constantly,  to 
find  some  cognizant  of  the  offence  which  had  thrown  so 
black  a  shadow  over  his  life.  He  read  with  eager  avidity 
the  dying  confessions  of  the  condemned.  He  caught  eager 
ly  every  syllable  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  men,  who,  stand 
ing  on  the  brink  of  eternity,  seemed  to  be  impressed  with 
the  necessity  of  revealing  truth.  But  for  yVars  his  expec 
tations  were  baffled.  V  % 

At  last,  all  Paris  was  thrown  into  commotion  by  the 
murder  of  a  Colonel  Belleville,  an  officer  who  had  served 
with  distinction  in  the  grand  army,  and  who  was  found 
dead,  one  morning,  in  a  room  at  house  number  9G  Rue 
La  Harpe.  The  only  mark  of  violence  discovered  by  the 
surgeons  was  a  dark,  purple  spot,  about  the  size  of  a  live- 
franc  piece,  on  the  left  temple.  The  police  were  apprised 
that,  on  the  morning  of  the  day  before,  a  slight  young 
man,  with  fair  hair  and  polished  address,  giving  his 
name  as  Adolph  Belmont,  had  hired  the  room  at  number 
96  Rue  La  Harpe,  and  paid  a  week's  rent  in  advance. 
It  further  appeared  that,  in  the  evening,  just  after  the  close 
of  the  performances  at  the  opera,  this  young  man  had  come 
home  in  company  with  an  officer  of  the  army.  After  the 
lapse  of  about  an  hour,  the  young  man,  Belmont,  left  the 
house,  telling  the  porter  he  should  return  in  a  few  minutes. 
But  he  never  reappeared.  About  ten  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  the  porter  went  up  to  his  room,  and  found  the  door 
locked.  He  knocked  and  called,  without  receiving  any 
answer.  Looking  through  the  keyhole,  he  saw  the  feet 
and  legs  of  a  man,  in  military  boots  and  pantaloons,  lying 
on  the  floor.  Much  alarmed  and  disturbed,  he  sought  out 
a  commissary  of  police,  and  that  functionary,  breaking  open 
the  door,  discovered  the  body  of  Colonel  Belleville.  Thia 
tragedy  excited  an  unusual  sensation.  Even  the  emperox 


308  THE    SILVER    HAMMER. 

heard  of  it,  and,  from  his  private  purse  provided  a  large 
sum  of  money  to  be  paid  as  a  reward  to  the  discoverer  of 
the  perpetrator  of  this  fearful  crime. 

Not  many  days  after  this  occurrence,  and  while  it  yet 
remained  shrouded  in  mystery,  another  murder  roused  the 
excitable  population  of  Paris  to  a  frenzy  of  anxiety  and 
horror.  An  &rmy  commissary,  named  Captain  Eugene 
Descartes,  wasf  found  dead  in  his  lodgings,  in  the  Rue 
Richelieu,  with  the  same  fatal  purple  mark  on  the  left 
temple. 

Yet  a  third  murder  was  perpetrated  in  the  Boulevard 
des  Italiens.  A  banker,  named  Monval,  was,  in  this  in 
stance,  the  victim.  His  left  temple  bore  the  fatal  discolor 
ation  of  the  size  of  a  five-franc  piece  ;  but,  although  he 
had  a  large  sum  of  money  on  his  person,  and  wore  a  costly 
watch  and  many  valuable  trinkets,  and  though  articles  of 
high  price  abounded  in  his  sumptuously-furnished  apart 
ment,  not  an  article,  as  his  steward  testified,  was  missing. 

On  the  morning  of  the  announcement  of  this  last  crime 
in  the  Moniteur,  the  minister  of  police  received  a  summons 
from  the  emperor  to  attend  him.  He  found  him  in  his 
private  cabinet,  pacing  to  and  fro  in  high  excitement. 
His  face  was  more  colorless  than  ever,  except  that  an 
angry  hectic  spot  burned  upon  each  cheek.  As  the  min 
ister  entered,  the  emperor  turned  upon  him,  and  ex 
claimed,  — 

"  Fouche,  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  Is  this 
Paris,  and  are  we  living  in  the  nineteenth  century  ?  It 
appears  that  there  is  no  security  for  life  in  our  capital. 
Mr.  Fouche,  if  such  crimes  can  be  committed  with  im 
punity,  there  is  an  end  of  all  things  ;  and  if  you  cannot 
ferret  out  the  perpetrators  of  such  atrocities  as  these,  it  is 


THE    SILVER    HAMMER.  309 

time  for  you  to  vacate  your  position.  I  must  appoint  a 
new  minister  of  police." 

"  Sire,"  replied  the  minister,  "  how  much  time  will  you 
give  me  to  discover  the  assassin  ?  " 

"  One  week,"  replied  the  emperor. 

"  I  thank  your  majesty,"  replied  the  minister,  bowing. 
"  In  one  week,  you  shall  have  the  assassin's  head,  or  my 
resignation." 

"  Good,"  said  the  emperor  ;  "  and  to  stimulate  the  activ 
ity  of  your  people,  I  hereby  authorize  you  to  offer  a 
reward  of  twenty  thousand  francs,  for  the  detection  of  the 
assassin  of  the  Rue  La  Harpe,  the  Rue  Richelieu,  and  the 
Boulevard,  if  it  prove,  as  I  imagine,  that  one  individual 
perpetrated  these  crimes,  or  five  thousand  francs  each,  if 
there  were  three  criminals.  Good  day,  Mr.  Fouche ;  let 
me  have  a  report  of  your  doings  without  delay." 

The  secret  of  Mr.  Fouche's  confident  promise  to  detect 
the  assassin  was  the  reliance  he  placed  in  the  activity, 
daring,  and  intelligence  of  Pierre  Lacour.  He  sent  for 
him,  and  related  his  conversation  with  the  emperor,  en 
larging  on  the  munificent  reward  promised  by  Napoleon. 

"  I  am  poor,"  said  Lacour,  "  but  higher  motives  than 
hopes  of  reward  stimulate  me  to  perform  this  duty.  Yet, 
should  I  be  successful,  a  sum  of  money  like  this  would 
enable  me  to  wed  one,  who,  though  I  voluntarily  offered  to 
release  her  from  her  engagment,  has  loved  me  as  well  in 
my  misfortunes  as  in  happier  times.  In  one  week,  there 
fore,  Mr.  Fouche,  I  will  enable  you  to  redeem  your  pledge 
to  the  emperor." 

Four  days  passed  away,  and  yet  the  minister  of  police 
heard  nothing  from  Lacour.  But  the  young  man  had  not 
been  inactive ;  and  once  or  twice  he  had  obtained,  what  he 
considered,  traces  of  the  person  calling  himself  Belmont, 

u 


810  THE    SILVER    HAMMER. 

the  supposed  assassin  of  the  Rue  la  Harpe,  and,  by  pre 
sumption,  of  the  other  murders ;  but  these  traces  led  to  nc 
result. 

"Whether  in  search  of  diversion,  or  that  a  vague  hope 
whispered  to  him  that  he  might  obtain  some  intelligence  by 
BO  doing,  Lacour,  on  the  fifth  night  after  his  interview  with 
the  minister,  went  to  a  masked  ball  at  the  grand  opera 
house,  in  the  costume  of  an  officer  of  the  Fusilier  Guard, 
which  chance  led  him  to  select.  Weary  of  the  noise  and 
confusion,  sad  and  discouraged,  he  had  withdrawn  from  the 
crowded  circle  of  dancers,  when  some  one  touched  him  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  Captain  Lassalle,"  said  a  sweet  musical  voice,  "  you 
are  known,  though  the  uniform  you  wear  is  not  that  of 
your  own  corps." 

Lacour  turned  with  the  intention  of  correcting  the  mis 
take,  when  a  secret  impulse  restrained  the  disavowal.     The 
person  who  addressed  him  was  a  slight  young  man,  fash 
ionably  dressed,  with  no  other  disguise  than  a  half-mask  of 
black  velvet,  which  did  not  conceal  his  light  hair. 

"  I  perceive  you  know  me,"  said  Lacour,  favoring  the 
mistake  ;  "  though  you  have  the  advantage  of  me.  I  can 
not  possibly  conjecture  whom  I  am  addressing." 

The  masked  laughed  lightly. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  of  no  use  for  me  to  unmask,"  was 
the  reply  ;  "  but  if  I  tell  you  I  have  something  of  import 
ance  to  communicate  to  you  —  something  in  reference  to 
your  application  to  the  emperor  for  preferment,  you  may  be 
disposed  to  listen  to  me." 

"  With  all  my  heart," 

"  I  see  you  are  tired  of  this  noisy  scene,"  said  the  mask, 
"  and  so  in  faith  am  I.  Besides,  this  is  no  place  to  talk  of 
business.  "What  say  you  to  a  moonlight  walk  to  my  lodg 


THE    SILVER   HAMMER.  311 

ings,  in  the  Rue  Montmartre  ?  There  we  can  discuss  our 
affairs  over  a  glass  of  champagne." 

"  I  will  willingly  accompany  you,"  said  Lacour,  "  if  you 
will  give  me  a  few  minutes  to  speak  to  a  friend,  with  whom 
I  had  a  previous  appointment." 

"  Make  haste,  then,"  said  the  mask ;  "  you  will  find  me 
here  for  fifteen  minutes." 

Lacour  hastened  to  the  nearest  post,  and  made  himself 
known  to  the  commandant. 

"  Quick  !"  said  he,  "  I  want  a  sergeant  and  a  dozen  gens 
d'armes.  In  fifteen  minutes  I  shall  leave  the  opera  house, 
in  company  with  a  young  man,  for  the  Rue  Montmartre. 
Let  the  squad  follow  us  without  appearing  to  do  so.  Keep 
in  the  shadow  of  the  houses.  We  shall  enter  a  house.  As 
soon  as  the  door  has  closed,  demand  instant  admittance  of 
the  porter.'  Let  the  sergeant  follow  hard  upon  my  heels, 
and  wait  outside  the  door  of  whatever  room  I  enter.  At  a 
call  from  me,  let  him  be  ready  to  burst  in  and  secure  the 
person  with  whom  I  am  in  company." 

As  soon  as  he  had  given  these  directions,  the  police  of 
ficer  hastened  back  to  the  opera  house,  where  the  mask  was 
still  awaiting  him.  Arm  in  arm  they  left  the  hall,  and 
chatting  familiarly,  entered  the  Rue  Montmartre,  and  soon 
arrived  at  an  old  house  of  seven  stories,  to  which  they  were 
admitted  by  the  porter.  Lacour's  heart  beat  as  he  accom 
panied  his  guide,  in  the  dark,  up  three  pairs  of  stairs  —  but 
before  he  had  reached  the  head  of  the  third  flight,  he  heard 
the  street  door  open  and  shut  below,  and  knew  that  the 
sergeant  had  obeyed  his  directions,  and  that  help  was  at 
hand  in  case  his  suspicions  proved  true. 

The  mask  opened  the  door  of  a  room,  and  ushered  in  hia 
guest.  It  was  a  small,  boudoir-like  apartment,  and  ex- 
quisitely  furnished.  Silken  hangings  fell  over  gold  arrows, 


312  THE    SILVER   HAMMER. 

from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor.  Tapestry  carpets,  soft  aa 
velvet,  covered  the  floor.  Rich  ottomans,  superb  mirrors, 
marble  tables,  and  pictures,  were  crowded  together.  A 
soft  light  was  diffused  through  the  apartment  by  an  alabas 
ter  shade-lamp.  An  intoxicating  perfume  loaded  the  at 
mosphere,  and  even  oppressed  the  senses.  Lacour,  as  he 
sank  upon  the  sofa,  felt  overcome  by  a  strange  languor. 
The  mask  sat  close  beside  him. 

"  Captain,"  said  the  mask,  in  a  musical,  insinuating  voice, 
"  have  you  ever  loved  ?  " 

"  Before  I  answer  this  question,"  replied  Lacour,  "  I 
must  first  know  what  prompts  you  thus  to  catechize  me." 

"Because,"  replied  the  unknown,  "I  have  deceived  you 
— -  because  I  am  a  woman  —  one  who  has  long  known  and 
loved  you,  till  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  make  this  con 
fession  has  compelled  her  to  a  step  that  you  will  blame, 
and,  perhaps,  despise  her  for." 

Lacour  was  puzzled,  and  remained  silent  for  a  few  mo 
ments. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  mask,  with  a  sigh,  "  you  despise  me  for 
my  very  boldness.  Yet,  I  am  a  lady  of  rank  and  reputa 
tion,  and  my  affection  for  you  is  as  pure  as  that  of  maiden 
can  be." 

"  Fair  lady,"  said  Lacour,  "  if  such  you  be  indeed,  you 
must  permit  me  to  request  you  to  remove  that  envious 
mask." 

"It  may  not  be,"  replied  the  stranger,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Ask  that,  or  presume  to  remove  this  shield,  and  I  vanish 
like  a  fairy  or  a  phantom.  But  if  you  promise  to  be  very 
obedient,  I  may  give  you  hopes  of  disclosing  my  face  — • 
perhaps  my  name  —  at  our  next  interview.  But  in  reward 
for  your  submission  to  my  behest,  I  will  allow  you,  like  a 
benignant  sovereign,  to  do  homage  to  my  ungloved  hand." 


THE    SILVER   HAMMER.  313 

She  withdrew  her  kid  glove,  and  presented,  playfully,  a 
hand  so  white,  so  delicately  veined,  and  small,  that  Lacour 
could  no  longer  doubt  that  he  was  addressing  a  lady.  He 
raised  the  hand  respectfully  to  his  lips.  But  he  felt  now 
that  his  suspicions  were  groundless,  and  that  he  did  wrong 
in  deceiving  a  person,  who,  however  romantic  and  unjusti 
fiable  her  behavior  might  seem,  was  still  one  entitled  to 
respect  and  honor.  But  as  he  was  framing  an  apology  for 
taking  advantage  of  her  mistaking  him,  the  stranger  sud 
denly  sprang  upon  him  like  a  tigress.  The  delicate  hand 
he  had  just  kissed  now  compressed  his  throat  like  an  iron 
vice  ;  the  other  suddenly  brandished  in  the  air  a  small 
silver  hammer,  while  a  fierce  voice  hissed  in  his  ear,  "  Las- 
salle !  your  hour  has  come !  Belleville,  Descartes,  and 
Monval,  have  gone  before  you  to  answer  for  their  crimes. 
You  are  the  fourth,  and  last.  Die,  villain  ! " 

But  Lacour  struggled  free,  and  shouted  for  help.  The 
door  fell  with  a  crash  ;  the  soldiers  poured  in,  and  the  fe 
male  assassin  was  secured  and  disarmed.  Eager  to  un 
ravel  the  mystery,  the  police  officer  tore  the  mask  from  the 
face  of  the  unknown,  and  recognized  in  the  wild  and  in 
flamed  features  of  the  assassin  of  the  Rue  La  Harpe,  the 
Rue  Richelieu,  and  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  his  sister, 
Maria  Lacour ! 

But  Maria  Lacour  died  not  on  the  scaffold.  She  was 
saved  from  that  doom  by  unquestionable  proofs  of  insanity. 
Her  sad  story  was  learned  afterwards  from  various  sources, 
and  corroborated,  in  the  most  important  particulars,  by 
Captain  Lassalle,  who  was  arrested  for  a  criminal  offence 
shortly  after  the  above  incident,  and  made  a  full  confession 
of  his  guilt.  It  appeared,  then,  that  the  house  of  the  widow 
Lacour,  a  short  time  before  the  opening  of  our  story,  had 
27 


314  THE    SILVER   HAMMER. 

been  broken  into  by  four  villains,  named  Belleville,  Des 
cartes,  Monval,  and  Lassalle.  They  were  all  men  of  bad 
habits,  and  urgently  necessitous,  but  yet  of  decent  educa 
tion  and  family.  Hearing  a  noise  in  the  kitchen,  Maria 
descended  only  in  time  to  witness  the  death  pangs  of  the 
mother.  The  three  first-named  ruffians,  demons  who  had 
murdered  to  rob,  wished  to  destroy  this  witness  of  their 
guilt,  but  the  fourth  interceded,  and  her  life  was  spared. 
But  the  horror  of  the  deed  overthrew  her  reason.  She 
fled  from  the  house  that  night  a  maniac ;  whither  she  wan 
dered,  how  she  was  cared  for,  for  a  long  time  was  and 
must  ever  remain  a  mystery.  She  finally,  it  seems,  became 
in  a  degree  tranquillized,  found  her  way  to  Paris,  and  there 
she  supported  herself  by  her  extraordinary  skill  as  an 
embroideress. 

But  it  was  conjectured  that  her  memory  of  early  events 
had  gone.  The  casual  sight  of  one  of  the  assassins,  all  of 
whom  had  prospered  and  risen  in  the  world,  revived  the 
recollection  of  that  one  fearful  night  of  horror,  and  with 
it  came  to  her  disordered  brain  the  thirst  of  vengeance. 
It  did  not  appear  that  for  a  moment  she  had  dreamed  of 
appealing  to  the  interposition  of  the  law.  To  execute  a 
summary  vengeance,  personally,  was  her  terrible  resolve. 
With  a  cunning  that  often  supplies  the  loss  of  reason  with 
the  insane,  she  contrived  snares,  into  which  three  of  the 
assassins  fell,  and,  with  the  singular  implement  her  fancy 
had  suggested,  was  the  means  of  their  death.  Chance  led 
to  the  failure  of  her  plan  for  punishing  the  last  of  the 
assassins,  Lassalle,  and  to  her  discovery  by  her  brother. 

Immediately  after  her  arrest  and  examination,  on  proof 
of  the  condition  of  her  mind,  she  was  conveyed  to  a  private 
asylum,  and  carefully  attended  to.  Fortunately,  her  mad 
ness  here  assumed  a  happier  phase.  She  took  great  pleas- 


THE    SILVER    HAMMER.  315 

lire  in  seeing  her  brother,  and  appeared  to  have  forgotten 
that  her  mother  was  no  more,  asking  him  every  day  how 
soon  their  mother  would  come  and  take  her  back  to  the 
country.  But  the  trials  she  had  undergone  had  under 
mined  her  health.  She  sank  very  rapidly,  and  soon 
breathed  her  last. 

Lacour  only  remained  long  enough  in  the  service  of  the 
police  to  effect  the  arrest,  arid  witness  the  condemnation  of 
Lassalle,  the  last  of  the  four  assassins,  who  escaped  the 
silver  hammer  of  the  maniac  girl,  to  die  by  the  hand  of  the 
executioner. 

The  sorrows  he  had  experienced  would  have  blighted 
the  heart  and  sapped  the  life  of  Pierre  Lacour,  but  for  the 
love  of  one  who  had  proved  true  to  him  through  all  his 
trials.  Some  months  after  the  death  of  his  sister,  he  mar 
ried  his  faithful  Estelle,  and  retired  to  a  small  and  well- 
stocked  farm,  for  which  he  was  indebted  to  the  generosity 
of  the  emperor ;  and  he  lived  long  enough,  if  not  to  forget 
his  sorrows,  at  least  to  find  consolation  in  the  bosom  of  his 
family. 


THE   CHRIST  CHURCH  CHIMES. 

IT  was  a  cold  winter  evening.  The  chill  blast  caine 
sweeping  from  the  chain  of  hills  that  guard  our  city  on  the 
north,  laden  with  the  cold  breath  of  a  thousand  leagues  of 
ice  and  snow.  There  was  a  sharp,  polar  glitter  in  the 
myriad  stars  that  wheeled  on  their  appointed  course 
through  the  dark  blue  heaven,  in  whose  expanse  no  single 
cloud  was  visible.  Howling  through  the  icy  streets  came 
the  strong,  wild  north  wind,  tearing  in  its  fierce  frenzy  the 
sailcloth  awnings  into  tatters,  swinging  the  public-house 
signs,  and  shaking  the  window  shutters,  like  a  bold  burglar 
bent  on  the  perpetration  of  crime.  Then  onward,  onward 
it  sped  over  the  dark  steel-colored  bay,  and  out  to  the  wild, 
wide,  open  sea,  to  do  battle  with  the  sails  of  the  stanch 
barks  that  were  struggling  towards  a  haven. 

But  within,  the  good  people  of  Boston  were  stoutly 
waging  battle  against  the  common  enemy  on  this  bitter 
Christmas  eve.  In  some  of  the  old-fashioned  houses  at  the 
North  End,  inhabited  by  old-fashioned  people,  the  ruddy 
light  that  streamed  through  the  parlor  windows  on  the 
street  announced  that  huge  fires  of  oak  and  hickory  were 
blazing  on  the  ample  hearths.  But  in  far  the  greater  num 
ber  of  dwellings,  the  less  genial,  but  more  powerful  anthra 
cite  was  contending  with  the  wintry  elements. 

In  an  upper  room  of  an  old,  crazy,  wooden  house,  a  poo* 
woman,  thinly  clad,  sat  sewing  beside  a  rusty,  sheet-iron 

316 


THE    CHRIST    CHURCH    CHIMES.  317 

stove,  poorly  supplied  with  chips.  She  had  been  once 
eminently  handsome,  and  but  for  the  wanness  and  hollow- 
ness  of  her  face,  would  have  appeared  so  still. 

Two  little  boys,  of  eight  and  nine  years  of  age,  were 
warming  themselves,  or  seeking  to  warm  themselves,  at  the 
stove,  before  retiring  to  their  little  bed  in  a  small  room 
adjoining. 

"  Isn't  this  nice,  mother  ?  "  said  the  younger,  a  bright, 
black-eyed  boy.  "  Didn't  I  get  a  nice  lot  of  chips  to 
day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dearest,  you  are  always  a  good  and  industrious 
boy,"  said  the  mother,  snatching  a  moment  from  her  work 
to  imprint  "a  kiss  upon  his  forehead. 

"  Poor  pa'  will  have  a  nice  fire  to  warm  him  when  he 
comes  home,"  said  the  elder  boy. 

At  this  allusion  to  the  child's  father,  the  mother  burst 
into  tears.  The  countenances  of  both  the  children  fell. 
They  knew  too  well  the  cause  of  their  mother's  bitter  sor 
row  —  the  same  cause  had  blighted  their  own  young  hearts 
and  clouded  their  innocent  lives  —  their  father  was  a  drunk 
ard!  Hence  it  was  that^  bright  and  intelligent  as  they 
were,  they  could  not  go  to  school  —  they  were  too  ragged 
for  that  —  and  their  time  was  required  on  the  wharves  to 
pick  up  fuel  and  such  scraps  of  provision  as  are  scattered 
from  the  sheaves  of  the  prosperous  and  prodigal.  For  this 
reason,  too,  the  mother  had  carefully  forborne  to  remind  the 
children  that  this  was  Christmas  eve.  But  they  knew  it 
too  well,  and  they  contrasted  its  gloominess  and  sorrow 
with  the  well-remembered  anniversaries  when  this  was  a 
season  of  delight  —  the  eve  of  promised  pleasures,  of  feasts, 
of  dances,  and  of  presents.  With  this  thought  in  their 
hearts  they  silently  kissed  their  mother,  and  retired  to  their 
little  bed,  committing  themselves  to  "  Our  Father  who  art 
27* 


318  THE    CHRIST    CHURCH    CHIMES. 

in  heaven,"  while  the  poor  mother  toiled  on,  listening  with 
dread  for  the  returning  footsteps  of  Ler  husband. 

The  husband  and  father,  whose  return  was  thus  dread 
ed,  had  worked  late  at  night  in  the  shop  of  the  carpen 
ter  who  had  given  him  temporary  employment,  and  who 
was  to  pay  him  this  evening.  Five  or  six  dollars  were 
coming  to  him,  more  than  he  had  earned  honestly  for 
a  long  while,  and  his  hand  shook  with  eagerness  as  his 
employer  counted  out  his  wages.  As  he  put  on  his  hat  to 
leave  the  shop,  he  observed  his  fellow-workmen,  who  were 
all  sober  and  steady  men,  eying  him  with  sad,  inquiring 
looks ;  he  almost  ran  out  of  the  shop. 

"  I  know  what  they  mean,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  But 
what  is  it  to  them  how  I  spend  my  money  —  the  prying 
busy-bodies  !  I'm  not  a  slave  —  I  have  a  right  to  do  what 
I  please  with  my  own.  Whew !  how  cutting  the  wind  is  ! 
A  glass  or  two  of  hot  whiskey  toddy  will  be  just  the  thing  !  " 

Without  one  thought  of  his  toiling  wife  and  neglected 
children,  the  poor,  infatuated  man  hastened  towards  a  gro 
cery  with  the  intention  of  slaking  his  morbid  thirst.  At 
the  moment  his  foot  was  on  the  threshold,  out  from  the 
belfry  of  Christ  Church,  ringing  clear  in  the  frosty  air, 
streamed  a  tide  of  sweet  and  solemn  music.  Simple,  yet 
touching,  was  the  melody  of  those  sacred  bells,  chiming 
forth  the  advent  of  the  blessed  Christmas  time.  And  as 
the  song  of  the  bells  fell  upon  his  ear,  it  awakened  in  the 
drunkard  a  thousand  memories  of  happier,  because  better 
days.  The  comfortable  dwelling,  the  quiet,  neat  parlor, 
with  its  Christmas  dressings,  the  sweet  face  of  his  wife,  the 
merry  laugh  of  his  bright-eyed  children  —  all  flashed  back 
vividly  upon  his  mind.  He  recked  not  of  the  bitter  blast 
—  he  forgot  his  late  purpose  — he  could  wish  those  aweet 
bells  to  play  on  forever.  But  they  ceased. 


THE    CHRIST    CHURCH    CHIMES.  319 

"  It  was  a  voice  from  heaven ! "  said  the  man,  as  the 
tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  "  Surely  God  has  blessed 
those  Christ  Church  chimes.  I'll  never  more  drink  one 
drop.  This  money  shall  go  to  my  family,  every  cent  of  it. 
It  is  not  too  late  yet  to  buy  provision  for  to-morrow,  and 
some  comfortable  things  for  the  children." 

It  was  late  that  night  when  the  watching  wife  heard  the 
step  of  her  husband  on  the  staircase.  It  was  as  slow  and 
heavy  as  usual;  but  how  relieved,  how  astonished,  how 
grateful  she  felt,  when  the  door  opened,  and  he  came  in, 
happy,  sober,  bearing  a  huge  basket  filled  with  provisions, 
and  threw  down  a  parcel  containing  stockings,  comforters, 
and  mittens  for  the  children,  not  forgetting  some  simple 
Christmas  wreaths,  and  some  of  those  condiments  which 
children  love. 

The  next  day  was  a  happy  one  indeed  for  the  mother 
and  the  little  boys  —  a  merry  Christmas  that  reminded 
them  of  old  times,  and  gave  them  assurance  of  a  happy 
future.  May  we  not  hope  that  the  effect  we  have  attrib 
uted  to  the  Christ  Church  chimes  is  not  a  solitary  instance 
of  the  power  of  music  ? 


THE   POLISH  SLAVE. 

GAYLY  opened  the  bright  summer  morning  on  the  gray 
feudal  turrets  of  Castle  Tekeli,  the  residence  of  the  old 
Count  Alexis  Tekeli,  that  crowned  a  rocky  eminence,  and 
was  embosomed  in  the  deep  secular  forests  of  Lithuania. 
The  court  yard  was  a  scene  of  joyous  noise  and  gay  con 
fusion  ;  for  the  whole  household  was  mustering  for  the 
chase.  Half  a  dozen  horses,  gaily  caparisoned,  were  neigh 
ing,  snorting,  and  pawing  the  ground  with  hot  impatience ; 
a  pack  of  stanch  hounds,  with  difficulty  restrained  by  the 
huntsmen,  mingled  their  voices  with  the  neighing  of  the 
steeds,  while  the  slaves  and  relatives  of  the  family  were  all 
busy  in  preparation  for  the  day's  sport. 

Count  Alexis  was  the  first  in  the  saddle ;  aged,  but  hale 
and  vigorous,  he  was  alert  and  active  as  a  youou;  man  of 
five-and-twenty. 

"  Where  are  my  daughters  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  impatient 
ly,  as  he  drew  on  his  buff  gantlets.  "  The  sun  is  mount 
ing  apace,  and  we  should  not  lose  the  best  portion  of  the 
day." 

As  if  in  reply  to  his  question,  a  tall,  dark-haired  girl,  of 
elegant  figure  and  stately  bearing,  appeared  by  his  side,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  a  groom,  mounted  her  prancing  gray 
palfrey. 

"  This  is  well,  Anna,"  said  the  count.  "  But  where  ia 
Sudocia?  She  must  not  keep  us  waiting." 

320 


THE    POLISH    SLAVE.  321 

"Eudocia  declines  to  be  of  our  party,  father,"  replied  the 
girl. 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  the  old  man  ;  "  she  will  never  have  your 
color  in  her  cheeks,  if  she  persist  in  moping  in  her  cham 
ber,  reading  old  legends  and  missals,  and  the  rhymes  of 
worthless  minnesingers.  But  let  her  go;  I  have  one 
daughter  who  can  live  with  the  hunt,  and  see  the  boar  at 
bay  without  flinching.  Sound,  bugle,  and  forward !  " 

Amid  the  ringing  of  silver  curb  chains,  the  baying  of 
hounds,  and  the  enlivening  notes  of  the  bugle,  the  caval 
cade  and  the  train  of  footmen  swept  out  of  the  court  yard, 
and  descending  the  winding  path,  plunged  into  the  heart  of 
the  primeval  forest.  The  dogs  and  the  beaters  darted 
into  the  thick  copsewood,  and  soon  the  shouts  of  the  hunts 
men  and  the  fierce  bay  of  the  dogs  announced  that  a  wild 
boar  had  been  found  and  started.  On  dashed  the  merry 
company,  Count  Alexis  leading  on  the  spur.  The  lady 
Anna  soon  found  herself  alone,  but  she  pressed  her  palfrey 
in  the  direction  of  the  sounds  of  the  chase  as  they  receded 
in  the  distance.  Suddenly  she  found  herself  in  a  small 
clearing,  and  drew  her  rein  to  rest  her  panting  steed.  She 
had  not  remained  long  in  her  position,  when  she  heard,  op 
posite  to  her,  a  crashing  among  the  branches,  and  the  next 
moment  a  huge  wild  boar,  maddened  with  pursuit,  and 
foaming  with  rage,  broke  into  the  opening  and  sprang  di 
rectly  towards  her.  Her  horse,  terrified  at  the  apparition, 
reared  so  suddenly  that  he  fell  backwards,  throwing  his  rider 
heavily,  and  narrowly  missing  crushing  her.  Springing  to 
his  feet,  he  dashed  wildly  away  with  flying  mane  and  rein, 
while  the  lady  lay  at  the  mercy  of  the  infuriated  animal, 
faint  and  incapable  of  exertion. 

At  that  critical  moment,  a  young  man,  in  the  livery  of 
the  count,  dashed  before  the  prostrate  form  of  the  lady, 


822  THE    POLISH    SLAVE. 

atid  dropping  on  one  knee,  levelled  his  short  spear,  and 
sternly  received  the  charge  of  the  boar.  Though  the  weap 
on  was  well  directed,  it  shivered  in  the  grasp  of  the  young 
huntsman ;  and  though  he  drew  his  short  sword  with  the 
rapidity  of  thought,  the  boar  was  upon  him.  The  struggle 
was  short  and  fierce,  and  the  young  huntsman  succeeded  in 
slaying  the  monster,  but  not  until  he  had  received  a  severe 
wound  in  the  arm  from  the  tusks  of  the  boar.  Heedless  of 
his  sufferings,  however,  he  ran  to  a  neighboring  rivulet, 
and  filling  his  cap  with  water,  returned  and  sprinkled  the 
face  of  the  fainting  girl.  In  a  few  moments  she  re 
vived. 

Her  first  words,  uttered  with  a  trembling  voice,  were,  — 

"  Where  —  where  is  the  wild  boar  ?  " 

"  There,  lady,"  said  the  huntsman,  pointing  to  the  griz 
zly  monster.  "  His  career  is  ended." 

"  And  it  is  you  who  have  saved  my  life,"  exclaimed  An 
na,  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  I  did  my  duty,  lady,"  answered  the  huntsman. 

"  But  who  are  you,  sir  ?  Let  me,  at  least,  know  your 
name  that  I  may  remember  you  in  my  prayers/ 

"  My  name  is  Michael  Erlitz ;  though  your  eyes,  lady, 
may  never  have  dwelt  on  one  so  lowly  as  myself,  I  am 
ever  in  your  father's  train  when  he  goes  to  the  chase.  I 
am  Count  Tekeli's  start"  he  added,  casting  his  eyes  or  the 
ground. 

"  A  slave  ?  and  so  brave  —  so  handsome  ! "  thought  the 
lady  Anna ;  but  she  gave  no  utterance  to  the  thought. 

At  this  moment  the  count  rode  up,  followed  by  two  or 
three  of  his  retainers,  and  throwing  himself  from  his  horse, 
clasped  his  daughter  in  his  arms. 

"  My  child,  my  child ! "  he  exclaimed ;  "  thank  jGod,  you 
are  alive !  I  saw  your  horse  dash  past  me  riderless,  and 


THE    POLISH    SLAVE.  323 

flew  to  your  assistance.  But  there  is  blood  upon  youi 
dress." 

"  It  is  my  blood !  "  said  the  slave,  calmly. 

"  Yours,  Michael  ?  "  cried  the  count,  looking  round  him. 
"  Now  I  see  it  all  —  the  dead  boar,  the  broken  spear,  your 
bleeding  arm.  You  saved  my  daughter's  life  at  the  risk  of 
your  own ! " 

"  The  life  of  a  slave  belongs  to  his  master  and  his  master's 
family,"  answered  Michael,  calmly.  "  Of  what  value  is  the 
existence  of  a  serf?  He  belongs  not  to  himself.  He  is  of 
no  more  account  than  a  horse  or  a  hound." 

"  Say  not  so,"  said  Count  Alexis,  warmly.  "  Michael, 
you  are  a  slave  no  longer.  I  will  directly  make  out  your 
manumission  papers.  In  the  mean  time  you  shall  do  no 
menial  service ;  you  shall  sit  at  my  board,  if  you  will ;  and 
be  my  friend,  if  you  will  accept  my  friendship." 

The  eagle  eye  of  the  young  huntsman  kindled  with  rap 
ture.  He  essayed  to  speak,  but  the  words  died  upon  his 
tongue.  Falling  on  his  knees,  he  seized  the  count's  hand, 
and  pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  heart.  Tekeli  raised  him 
from  his  humble  posture. 

"  Michael,"  said  he, "  henceforth  kneel  only  to  your  Maker. 
And  now  to  the  castle ;  your  hurt  needs  care." 

"  Willingly,"  said  the  young  man,  "  would  I  shed  the  best 
blood  in  my  body  to  obtain  my  freedom." 

"  Ho,  there ! "  said  the  count  to  his  squire  ;  "  dismount, 
and  let  Michael  have  your  horse ;  and  bring  after  us 
Michael's  dearly-earned  hunting  trophy.  He  has  eclipsed 
us  all  to-day." 

Michael  was  soon  in  the  saddle,  riding  next  to  the  lady 
Anna,  who,  from  time  to  time,  turned  her  countenance, 
beaming  with  gratitude,  upon  him,  and  addressed  him  words 
of  encouragement  and  kindness ;  for  her  proud  and  im« 


324  THE    POLISH    SLAVE. 

perious  nature  was  entirely  subdued  and  changed,  for  the 
time,  by  the  service  he  had  rendered  her. 

When  the  cavalcade  reached  the  castle,  they  found  tho 
lady  Eudocia,  the  count's  eldest  daughter,  waiting  to  receive 
them.  She  heard  the  recital  of  the  morning's  adventure 
with  deep  interest ;  but  a  keen  observer  would  have  noticed 
that  she  seemed  less  moved  by  the  recollection  of  her  sister's 
danger,  than  by  the  present  condition  of  the  wounded  hunts 
man.  It  was  to  her  care  that  he  was  committed,  as  she 
was  skilled  in  the  healing  art,  having  inherited  the  knowl 
edge  from  her  mother.  She  compelled  Michael  to  give  up 
all  active  employment,  and,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks, 
succeeded  in  effecting  a  complete  restoration  of  the  wounded 
arm. 

Count  Tekeli  treated  the  young  man  with  the  kindness 
of  a  father,  losing  all  his  aristocratic  prejudices  in  a  gen 
erous  sense  of  gratitude.  Splendidly  attired,  promised  an 
honorable  career  in  arms,  if  he  chose  to  adopt  the  military 
profession,  his  whole  future  changed  by  a  fortunate  accident, 
Michael  was  happy  in  the  intimacy  of  the  two  sisters.  He 
now  dared  to  aspire  to  the  hand  of  her  whom  he  had  saved, 
and  whom  he  loved  with  all  the  intensity  of  a  passionate 
nature.  Thus  weeks  and  months  rolled  on  like  minutes, 
and  he  only  awaited  the  delivery  of  his  manumission  papers 
to  join  the  banner  of  his  sovereign. 

One  day  —  an  eventful  day,  indeed,  for  him  —  he  re 
ceived  from  Eudocia,  the  elder  sister,  a  message,  inviting 
him  to  meet  her  in  a  summer  house  that  stood  in  a  small 
garden  connected  with  the  castle.  Punctual  to  the  hour 
named,  he  presented  himself  before  her. 

"  Michael,"  said  she,  extending  her  hand  to  him,  "  I  sent 
for  you  to  tell  you  a  secret." 

Her  voice  was  so  tremulous  and  broken,  that  the  young 


THE    POLfSH    SLAVE.  325 

man  gazed  earnestly  into  her  face,  and  saw  that  she  had 
been  weeping,  and  now  with  difficulty  suppressed  her  tears. 

"  Nay,"  said  she,  smiling  feebly  ;  "  it  will  not  be  a  secret 
long,  for  I  must  tell  it  to  my  father  as  soon  as  he  returns 
from  court  with  the  royal  endorsement  to  your  manumission. 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  all." 

"  To  leave  us,  lady  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  am  going  to  take  the  veil." 

"  You,  so  beautiful,  so  young !     It  cannot  be." 

"  Alas  !  youth,  beauty,  are  insufficient  to  secure  happiness. 
The  world  may  be  a  lonely  place,  even  to  the  young  and 
beautiful ;  the  cloister  is  a  still  and  sacred  haven  on  the 
road  to  a  better  world." 

"  And  what  has  induced  you  to  take  this  step  ?  I  have 
not  noticed  hitherto  any  trace  of  sorrow  or  weariness  in 
your  countenance." 

"  You  were  studying  a  brighter  page  —  the  fair  face  of 
my  sister.  Start  not,  Michael ;  I  have  divined  your  secret. 
She  loves  you,  Michael ;  she  loves  you  with  her  whole  soul. 

You  will  wed  her  and  be  happy ;  while  I "  She  turned 

away  her  face  to  conceal  her  tears. 

The  young  man  heard  only  the  blissful  prediction  that 
concerned  himself;  he  noted  not  the  pangs  of  her  who 
uttered  it. 

**  Dearest  lady !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  have  rendered  me 
the  happiest  of  men ; "  and  dropping  on  his  knees,  he  seized 
her  hand  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"  Hark ! "  said  Eudocia,  in  alarm ;  "  footsteps !  We  are 
surprised ;  I  must  not  be  seen  here  ! "  and  with  these  words 
she  fled. 

Michael  sprang  to  his  feet.  Before  him  stood  the 
younger  daughter  of  Count  Alexis,  her  eyes  flashing  fire, 
28  v 


32G  THE    POLISH    SLAVE. 

her  wi  ole  frame  quivering  with  passion.  He  advanced  and 
took  her  hand,  but  she  flung  it  from  him  fiercely. 

"  Slave  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  dare  you  pollute  with  your 
vile  touch  the  hand  of  a  high-born  dame  —  the  daughter  of 
your  master  ?  " 

"  Anna,  what  means  this  passion  ? "  cried  Michael,  in 
astonishment. 

"  Silence,  slave  !  "  cried  the  imperious  woman.  "  What 
ho,  there  ! "  she  added,  stamping  her  foot ;  "  who  waits  ?  " 

Half  a  dozen  menials  sprang  to  her  call. 

"  Take  me  this  slave  to  the  court  yard  ! "  she  cried  vehe 
mently  ;  "  he  has  been  guilty  of  misbehavior.  Let  him  taste 
the  knout ;  and  woe  be  to  you  if  you  spare  him.  Away 
.  with  him  !  Rid  me  of  his  hateful  presence  ! " 

While  Michael  was  subjected  to  this  hateful  punishment, 
the  vindictive  girl,  still  burning  with  passion,  sought  her 
sister.  What  passed  between  them  may  be  conjectured 
from  what  follows. 

Michael,  released  from  the  hands  of  the  menials,  stood, 
with  swelling  heart  and  burning  brow,  in  one  of  the  lofty 
apartments  of  the  castle.  He  had  felt  no  pain  from  the 
lash,  but  the  ignominy  of  the  punishment  burned  in  his  very 
soul,  consuming  the  image  that  had  been  in  his  inner  heart 
for  years.  The  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes,  and  he  now 
beheld  the  younger  daughter  of  the  count  in  all  the  defor 
mity  of  her  moral  nature — proud,  imperious,  passionate, 
and  cruel. 

A  door  opened  —  a  female,  with  dishevelled  hair,  and  a 
countenance  of  agony,  rushed  forward  and  threw  herself  at 
his  feet,  embracing  his  knees  convulsively.  It  was  Anna ! 

"  0  Michael !  "  she  cried,  "  forgive  me,  forgive  me !  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself  for  the  pain  I  inflicted  upon 
you." 


THE    POLISH    SLAVE.  327 

•l  I  have  suffered  no  pain,"  replied  Michael,  coldly.  "  Or 
if  I  did,  it  is  the  duty  of  a  slave  to  suffer  pain.  You  re 
minded  me  this  morning  that  I  was  still  a  slave." 

"  No,  no  !  It  is  /  that  am  your  slave  ! "  cried  the  lady. 
"Your  slave — body  and  soul.  Behold!  I  kiss  your  feet 
in  token  of  submission,  my  lord  and  master!  Michael, 
I  love  you  —  I  adore  you  !  I  would  follow  you  barefoot  to 
the  end  of  the  world.  Let  me  kiss  your  burning  wounds  ; 
and  O,  forgive  —  forgive  me ! " 

Michael  raised  her  to  her  feet,  and  gazed  steadily  in  her 
countenance. 

"  Lady,"  said  he,  "  I  loved  you  years  ago,  when,  as  a 
boy,  I  was  only  permitted  to  gaze  on  you,  as  we  gaze  upon 
the  stars,  that  we  may  worship,  but  never  possess.  It  was 
this  high  adoration  that  refined  and  ennobled  my  nature  ; 
that,  in  the  mire  of  thraldom,  taught  me  to  aspire  —  taught 
me  that,  though  a  slave,  I  was  yet  a  man.  Through  your 
silent  influence,  I  was  enabled  to  refine  my  manners,  to 
cultivate  my  mind,  and  to  fit  myself  for  the  freedom  which 
bounteous  Heaven  had  in  store  for  me." 

"  Yes,  yes  ! "  replied  Anna.     "  You  have  made  yourself 
all  that  can  render  a  woman  happy.     There  is  not  a  noble 
in  the  land  who  can  boast  of  accomplishments  like  yours 
and  you  are  beautiful  as  a.  virgin's  dream  of  angels." 

"  These  are  flattering  words,  lady." 

"  They  come  from  the  heart,  Michael." 

"  You  have  told  me  what  I  am,  lady.  Now  hear  what  I 
require  in  the  woman  I  would  wed.  She  must  be  beautiful, 
for  beauty  should  ever  mate  with  beauty  ;  high  born,  for  the 
lowly  of  birth  are  aspiring,  and  never  wed  their  equals 
yet  above  all,  gentle,  womanly,  kind,  forgiving,  affectionate* 
No  unsexed  Semiramis  or  Zenobia  for  me." 

"  I  will  make  myself  all  that  you  desire,  Michael." 


328  THE   POLISH    SLAVE. 

"We  cannot  change  our  natures,"  replied  Michael, 
coldly. 

"  But  you  will  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  arn  not  now  in  a  condition  to  answer  you.  Smarting 
with  indignation  I  can  ill  suppress,  I  cannot  command 
the  calmness  requisite  to  reply  in  fit  terms  to  the  generous 
confidence  of  a  high  -born  lady.  Retire  to  your  apartment, 
lady,  for  your  father  is  expected  momently,  and  I  must  see 
him  first  alone." 

Anna  kissed  the  hand  of  the  slave,  and  retired  slowly. 
A  few  moments  afterwards  the  gallop  of  a  horse  was  heard 
entering  the  court  yard,  and  this  sound  was  followed  by  the 
appearance  of  Count  Alexis,  who  threw  himself  into  the 
arms  of  Michael,  and  pressed  him  to  his  heart. 

"  J°v>  J°y>  Michael ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  are  now 
free  —  as  free  as  air !  Here  are  the  documents  ;  my  slave 
no  longer  —  my  friend  always.  And  as  soon  as  you  choose 
to  join  the  service,  you  can  lead  a  troop  of  the  royal  cav 
aliers." 

Michael  poured  out  his  thanks  to  his  generous  master. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  count,  "  to  touch  upon  a  matter 
nearer  still  to  my  heart.  Since  the  adventure  in  the  forest, 
I  have  loved  you  as  a  son.  To  make  you  such  in  reality 
would  be  to  crown  my  old  age  with  happiness.  My  daugh 
ters  are  acknowledged  to  be  beautiful,  fitting  mates  for  the 
proudest  of  the  land.  I  offer  you  the  hand  of  her  you  can 
love  the  best;  make  your  election,  and  I  doubt  not  her 
heart  will  second  my  wishes  and  yours." 

"  My  noble  friend,"  said  Michael,  "  I  accept  your  offer 
gratefully.  You  have  made  me  the  happiest  of  men.  You 
will  pardon  me,  I  know,  when  I  confess  that  I  have  dared 
to  raise  mj  eyes  to  one  of  your  daughters.  Without  your 


THE    POLISH    SLAVE.  32S 

consent  the  secret  should  have  been  hidden  forever  in  my 
own  heart,  even  had  it  consumed  it." 

Count  Tekeli  shook  the  hand  of  the  young  man  warmly, 
and  then  summoned  his  two  daughters.  They  obeyed 
promptly.  Both  were  agitated,  and  bent  their  eyes  upon 
the  floor. 

"  Count  Tekeli,"  said  Michael,  speaking  in  a  calm,  clear 
voice,  "  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  this  your  younger  daugh 
ter,  the  lady  Anna." 

As  her  name  was  uttered,  the  young  girl  raised  her  eyes, 
inquiringly,  to  the  face  of  the  speaker. 

"  Lady,  but  now,"  said  Michael,  "  you  solicited  my  for 
giveness  on  your  knees." 

"  What ! "  cried  the  count,  the  blood  mounting  to  his  tem 
ples  ;  "  a  daughter  of  mine  solicit  on  her  knees  forgiveness 
of  one  so  late  my  more  than  vassal — my  slave  !  What  is 
the  meaning  of  this  ?  " 

"It  means,"  cried  Michael,  kindling  as  he  spoke,  "that 
this  morning,  during  your  absence,  count,  —  nay,  a  half 
hour  before  your  return,  this,  your  younger  daughter,  in  a 
moment  of  ill-founded  jealousy  and  rage,  usurping  your  vir 
tual  rights,  —  rights  you  had  yourself  annulled,  —  doomed 
me  to  the  knout !  —  yea,  had  me  scourged  by  menials  in 
the  court  yard  of  your  castle !  " 

"  How,"  cried  the  count,  addressing  his  daughter,  "  dared 
you  commit  this  infamy  on  the  person  of  my  friend  —  the 
Bavior  of  your  life  ?  " 

"  I  did,  I  did ! "  cried  Anna,  wringing  her  hands. 

"And  you  asked  me  to  forgive  you,"  said  Michael. 
'  You  offered  me  your  hand,  and  begged  me  to  accept  it. 
My  answer  is,  Never,  never,  never !  The  moment  you  laid 
the  bloody  scourge  upon  my  back,  you  lost  your  hold  upon 
my  heart  forever !  I  were  less  than  a  man  could  I  forgive 
28* 


330  .          THE   POLISH    SLAVE. 

this  outrage  on  my  manhood.  I  savad  your  life  —  you  re 
paid  it  with  the  lash.  It  is  not  the  lash  that  wounds,  it  is 
the  shame.  The  one  eats  into  the  living  flesh,  the  other 
into  the  living  heart.  Were  you  ten  times  more  lovely 
than  you  are,  you  would  ever  be  a  monster  in  my  eyes." 

The  tears  that  coursed  freely  down  the  cheeks  of  the 
lady  Anna  ceased  'to  fall  as  Michael  ceased  to  speak.  A 
deep  red  flush  mounted  to  her  temples,  and  her  eyes,  so 
lately  humid,  shot  forth  glances  like  those  of  an  angry  ti 
gress.  She  turned  to  the  count. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  "  will  you  permit  a  base-born  slave 
to  use  such  language  to  your  daughter  ?  " 

"  Silence ! "  said  the  old  man.  "  His  heart  is  nobler  than 
yours.  More  measured  terms  could  not  have  passed  his 
lips.  I  should  have  despised  him  had  he  felt  and  said  less. 
Get  thee  to  thy  chamber,  and  in  penitence  and  prayer  re 
lieve  thy  conscience  of  the  sin  thou  hast  committed." 

The  lady  Anna  retired  from  the  apartment  with  a  haughty 
air  and  measured  step. 

"  Lady,"  said  Michael,  approaching  Eudocia,  "  between 
your  sister  and  myself  there  is  a  gulf  impassable.  If  ever 
I  can  forgive  her,  it  must  be  when  those  sweet  and  tender 
eyes,  that  speak  a  heart  all  steeped  in  gentleness  and  love, 
have  smiled  upon  my  hopes,  and  made  me  at  peace  with  all 
the  world.  Dearest  Eudocia,  will  you  accept  the  devotion 
of  my  heart  and  life?" 

He  took  her  hand ;  it  trembled  in  his  grasp,  but  was  not 
withdrawn.  She  struggled  for  composure  a  moment,  and 
then,  resting  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  wept  for  joy. 

The  nuptials  of  Michael  and  Eudocia  were  soon  cele 
brated.  A  brilliant  assemblage  graced  the  old  castle  on 
the  occasion  ;  but  long  before  the  solemnization,  the  count's 
younger  daughter  had  fled  to  a  convent  to  conceal  her  an 
ger  and  despair. 


OBEYING  ORDERS. 

THE  "  oldest  inhabitant "  perfectly  remembers  the  Wid 
ow  Trotter,  who  used,  many  years  ago,  to  inhabit  a  small 
wooden  house  away  down  in  Hanover  Street,  in  somewhat 
close  proximity  to  Salutation  Alley.  Well,  this  widow  was 
blessed  with  a  son,  who,  like  Goldsmith,  and  many  other 
men  distinguished  in  after  life,  was  the  dunce  of  his  class. 
Numerous  were  the  floggings  which  his  stupidity  brought 
upon  him,  and  the  road  to  knowledge  was  with  him  truly  a 
"  wale  of  tears." 

One  day  he  came  home,  as  usual,  with  red  eyes  and 
hands. 

"  O,  you  blockhead  ! "  screamed  his  mother,  —  she  was  a 
bit  of  a  virago,  Mrs.  Trotter  was,  —  "  you've  ben  gettin' 
another  lickin',  I  know." 

"  0,  yes,"  replied  young  Mr.  Trotter ;  "  that's  one  uv  the 
reg'lar  exercises  —  lickin'  me.  '  Arter  I've  licked  Trotter,' 
sez  the  master,  Til  hear  the  'rithmetic  class.'  But,  moth 
er,  to  change  the  subject,  as  the  criminal  said,  when  he 
found  the  judge  was  getting  personal,  is  there  enny  arrand 
I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Ye£,"  grumbled  the  widow ;  "  only  you're  so  eternal 
slow  about  every  thing  you  undertake  —  go  get  a  pitcher 
of  water,  and  be  four  years  about  it,  will  ye  ?  " 

Bob  Trotter  took  the  pitcher,  and  wended  his  way  in  the 
direction  of  the  street  pump ;  but  he  hadn't  got  far  when 

331 


332  OBEYING    OBDERS. 

he  encountered  his  friend,  Joe  Buffer,  the  mate  ot  a  vesse^ 
issuing  from  his  house,  dragging  a  heavy  sea  chest  after 
him. 

"  Come  Bob,"  said  Joe,  "  bear  a  hand,  and  help  us  down 
to  Long  Wharf  with  this." 

"  Well,  so  I  would,"  answered  Bob,  "  only  you  see  moth 
er  sent  me  arter  a  pitcher  o'  water." 

"  What  do  you  care  about  your  mother  —  she  don't  care 
for  you  ?  Come  along." 

"  Well,"  said  Bob,  "  first  let  me  hide  the  pitcher  where 
I  can  find  it  again." 

With  these  words  he  stowed  away  his  earthenware  under 
a  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  accompanied  his  friend  aboard 
his  ship.  The  pilot  was  urging  the  captain  to  cast  off,  and 
take  advantage  of  the  tide  and  wind,  but  the  latter  was 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  a  boy  who  had  shipped  the  day  be 
fore,  wishing  no  good  to  his  eyes  for  the  delay  he  had 
occasioned. 

At  last  he  turned  to  Bob,  and  said,  — 

"What  do  you  say,  youngster,  to  shipping  with  me? 
I'll  treat  you  well,  and  give  you  ten  dollars  a  month." 

"  I  should  like  to  go,"  said  Bob,  hesitatingly.  "  But  my 
mother " 

"  Hang  your  mother  ! "  interrupted  the  captain.  "  She'll 
be  glad  to  get  rid  of  you.  Come  —  will  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  hain't  got  no  clothes." 

"  Here's  a  chestfull.  That  other  chap  was  just  your  size ; 
they'll  fit  you  to  a  T." 

« I'll  go." 

"  Cast  off  that  line  there ! "  shouted  the  captain ;  and 
the  ship  fell  off  with  the  tide,  and  was  soon  standing  down 
the  bay  with  a  fair  wind,  and  every  stitch  of  canvas  set. 
She  was  bound  for  the  northwest  coast,  via  Canton,  and 


OBEYING    ORDERS.  333 

back  again,  which  was  then  called  the  "  double  voyage," 
and  usually  occupied  about  four  years. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  non-appearance  of  Bob  seriously 
alarmed  his  mother.  A  night  passed,  and  the  town  crier 
was  called  into  requisition  a  week,  when  she  gave  him  up, 
had  a  note  read  for  her  in  meeting,  and  went  into  mourn 
ing. 

Just  four  years  after  these  occurrences  the  ship  returned 
to  port,  and  Bob  and  his  friend  were  paid  off.  The  wages 
of  the  widow's  son  amounted  to  just  four  hundred  and 
eighty  dollars,  and  he  found,  on  squaring  his  accounts  with 
the  captain,  that  his  advances  had  amounted  to  the  odd  tens, 
and  four  hundred  dollars  clear  were  the  fruits  of  his  long 
cruise. 

As  he  walked  in  the  direction  of  his  mother's  house,  in 
company  with  Joe,  he  scanned  with  a  curious  eye  the 
houses,  the  shops,  and  the  people  that  he  passed.  Nothing 
appeared  changed  ;  the  same  signs  indicated  an  unchanging 
hospitality  on  the  part  of  the  same  landlords,  the  same 
lumpers  were  standing  at  the  same  corners  —  it  seemed  as 
if  he  had  been  gone  only  a  day.  With  the  old  sights  and 
sounds,  Bob's  old  feelings  revived,  and  he  almost  dreaded 
to  see,  debouching  from  some  alley,  a  detachment  of  boys 
sent  by  his  ancient  enemy,  the  schoolmaster,  to  know  why 
he  had  been  playing  truant,  and  to  carry  him  back  to  re 
ceive  the  customary  walloping. 

When  he  was  quite  near  home,  he  said,  — 

"  Joe,  I  wonder  if  any  body's  found  that  old  pitcher." 

He  stooped  down,  thrust  his  arm  under  the  stone  steps, 
and  withdrew  the  identical  piece  of  earthenware  he  had 
deposited  there  just  four  years  ago. 

Having  rinsed  and  filled  it  at  the  pump,  he  walked  intc 
his  mother's  house,  and  found  her  seated  in  her  accustomed 


S34  OBEYING    ORDERS. 

arm  chair.  She  looked  at  him  for  a  minute,  recognized  him, 
screamed,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  Why,  Bob  !  where  have  you  been  ?  What  have  you 
been  doing  ?  " 

"  Gettin'  that  pitcher  o*  water,"  answered  Bob,  setting  it 
upon  the  table.  "  I  always  obey  orders  —  you  told  me  to 
be  four  years  about  it,  and  I  was." 


THE   DEACON'S  HORSE. 

AJ  you  turn  a  corner  of  the  road,  passing  the  base  of  a 
huge  ilill  of  granite  all  overgrown  with  ivy  and  scrub  oak, 
the  de; Aeon's  house  comes  full  in  sight.  It  is  a  quaint  old  edi 
fice  of  wood,  whose  architecture  proclaims  it  as  belonging  to 
the  antt  revolutionary  period.  Innocent  of  paint,  its  dingy 
shingles  And  moss-grown  roof  assimilated  with  the  gray  tint 
of  the  oivi?  stone  fences  and  the  granite  boulders  that  rise 
from  the  surrounding  pasture  land.  The  upper  story  pro 
jects  ove*  the  lower  one,  and  in  the  huge  double  door  that 
gives  ent/ance  to  the  hall  there  are  traces  of  Indian  bullets 
and  tonuhawks,  reminiscences  of  that  period  when  it  was 
used  as  A  blockhouse  and  served  as  a  fortalice  to  protect  the 
inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  district,  who  fled  hither  for 
protection  from  the  vengeful  steel  and  lead  of  the  aborigines. 
On  one  side  of  the  mansion  is  an  extensive  apple  orchard  of 
great  antiquity,  through  which  runs  a  living  stream,  whose 
babble  in  the  summer  solstice,  mingled  with  the  hum  of  in 
sects,  is  the  most  refreshing  sound  to  which  the  ear  can 
listen.  On  the  other  side  is  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
wells,  whose  "  old  oaken  bucket "  rises  to  the  action  of  a 
"  sweep."  Two  immemorial  elm  trees,  in  a  green  old  age, 
shadow  the  trim  shaven  lawn  in  front.  Opposite  the  house, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  is  a  vast  barn,  whose  open 
doors,  in  the  latter  part  of  July,  afford  a  glimpse  of  a  com 
pact  mass  of  English  hay,  destined  for  the  sustenance  of 

335 


336  THE  DEACON'S  HORSE. 

the  cattle  in  the  dreary  months  of  winter.  We  must  not 
forget  the  huge  wood  pile,  suggestive  of  a  cheerful  fireside 
in  the  long  winter  evenings. 

But  where  is  the  deacon's  horse  ?  Last  year,  and  for 
the  past  twenty  years  precedingT  you  could  hardly  pass  of 
a  summer  evening,  without  noticing  an  old  gray  quietly 
feeding  by  the  roadside,  lazily  brushing  off,  with  his  long 
switch  tail,  the  hungry  flies  that  fastened  on  his  flanks. 
The  landscape  is  nothing  without  the  old  horse.  The  dea 
con  reared  him  on  the  homestead.  When  a  yearling  he 
used  to  come  regularly  to  the  back  door  and  there  receive 
crusts  of  bread,  crumbs  of  cake,  and  other  delicacies,  the 
free  gifts  of  the  children  to  their  pet.  He  was  the  most 
wonderful  colt  that  ever  was  —  as  docile  as  the  house  dog. 
When  stray  poultry  trespassed  on  the  grounds,  he  would 
lay  his  little  ears  back,  and  putting  his  nose  close  to  the 
ground,  curling  up  his  lips  and  showing  his  white  teeth, 
drive  the  marauders  from  the  premises  with  such  a  "scare," 
that  they  would  refrain  from  their  incursions  for  a  week  to 
come.  But  he  was  incapable  of  injuring  a  living  thing. 

When  old  enough  for  use,  he  submitted  to  the  discipline 
of  bit  and  bridle  without  a  single  opposing  effort.  And 
what  a  fine  figure  he  made  in  harness  !  How  smartly  he 
trotted  off  to  church  carrying  the  whole  family  behind  him 
in  a  Dearborn  wagon !  How  proud  was  his  carriage  when 
he  bore  the  deacon  on  his  back ! 

The  old  man  once  made  a  long  journey  on  horseback,  to 
visit  a  brother  who  lived  in  the  northern  part  of  New  Eng 
land.  A  great  portion  of  the  way  there  was  only  a  bridle 
path  to  follow  through  the  woods,  and  this  was  frequently 
obstructed  by  fallen  trees.  When  the  impediment  was 
merely  a  bare  trunk,  the  gallant  gray  cleared  it  gayly  at  a 
flying  leap ;  when  the  tree  was  encumbered  with  branches, 


THE  DEACON'S  HORSE.  337 

he  clambered  over  it  like  a  wild  cat.  Once  the  deacon 
was  obliged  to  dismount,  and  crawl  on  his  hands  and  knees 
through  the  dense  branches ;  the  sagacious  horse  imitated  his 
example,  and  worked  his  way  through  like  a  panther. 

But  age  came  upon  the  good  gray.  His  sight  began 
to  fail  —  his  knees  to  falter.  His  teeth  were  entirely  worn 
away. 

After  a  bitter  struggle  the  deacon  concluded  to  replace 
him  by  a  younger  horse.  Life  had  become  a  burden  to 
the  old  family  servant,  of  which  it  was  a  morcy  to  relieve 
him.  Yet,  even  then,  the  deacon  was  reluctant  to  give  a 
positive  order  for  his  execution. 

One  day  he  called  his  eldest  son  to  him. 

u  Abijah,"  said  he,  "  I'm  going  over  to  "W.,  to  get  that 
colt  I  was  speaking  about.  While  I  am  gone  I  want  you 
to  dispose  of  the  poor  old  gray.  I  shouldn't  like  to  sell  him 
to  any  body  that  would  abuse  him." 

He  could  say  no  more  —  but  Abijah  understood  him. 
When  his  father  had  gone,  he  went  into  the  meadow,  and 
dug  a  deep  pit,  beside  which  he  placed  the  sods  at  first  re 
moved  by  the  spade.  He  then  carefully  loaded  his  rifle 
and  called  to  the  old  gray.  The  poor  animal,  who  was  ac 
customed  to  obey  the  voice  of  every  member  of  the  family, 
feebly  neighed  and  tottered  to  the  brink  of  the  pit.  The 
young  man  threw  a  handkerchief  over  the  horse's  eyes,  and 
placing  the  muzzle  of  the  rifle  to  his  ear,  fired.  The 
poor  old  horse  fell,  without  a  groan,  into  the  grave  which 
had  been  prepared  for  him.  With  streaming  eyes,  Abijah 
threw  the  earth  over  the  remains  of  his  playmate,  and  then 
carefully  replaced  the  sod. 

When  the  deacon  returned  with  his  fine  new  horse,  he 
manifested  no  elation  at  his  purchase,  nor,  though  he  per 
ceived  that  the  stall  was  empty,  did  he  trust  himself  to 


•538  THE  DEACON'S  HORSE. 

make  any  inquiries  respecting  tfie  old  gray.  Only  the 
family  noticed,  that  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  in  wan 
dering  through  the  meadow,  he  came  upon  the  new-made 
grave,  and  though  the  sods  had  been  carefully  replaced, 
he  evidently  noticed  traces  of  the  spade,  and  suspected  the 
cause,  for  he  tried  the  soil  with  his  foot,  and  was  also  ob 
served  to  pass  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  But 
he  never  alluded  to  his  old  servant. 

If  there  be  men  who  can  smile  at  the  grief  of  a  family 
for  the  loss  of  an  animal  who  has  been  long  endeared  to 
them  by  service  and  association,  be  assured  that  their  hearts 
are  not  in  the  right  place ;  and  that  they  are  individuals 
who  would  exhibit  a  like  callousness  tD  the  loss  of  human 
friends. 


THE   CONTRABANDISTS 

A  TALE  OF  THE  PACIFIC  COAST. 

NIGHT  was  setting  in  —  a  clear,  starlight  night  —  as  a 
small  armed  brig  was  working  her  way  into  a  little  bay 
upon  the  western  coast  of  Mexico.  She  was  a  trim-built 
craft,  and  not  too  deeply  laden  to  conceal  the  symmetry  of 
her  dark  and  exquisitely-modelled  hull.  The  cleanness  of 
her  run,  the  elegance  of  her  lines,  the  rake  of  her  slender 
masts,  and  the  cut  of  her  sails,  showed  her,  at  a  glance,  to 
be  a  Baltimore-built  clipper  —  at  the  time  of  which  we 
speak  —  some  years  ago  —  the  fastest  thing  upon  the  ocean. 
She  was  working  to  windward  against  a  light  breeze,  and 
hence  was  unable  to  exhibit  any  thing  of  her  qualities, 
though  a  seaman's  eye  would  have  decided  at  a  glance  that 
she  could  sail  like  a  witch.  The  Zanthe,  for  that  was  the 
name  inscribed  in  gilt  letters  on  her  stern  and  sideboards, 
might  have  been  a  dangerous  customer  in  a  brush,  for  her 
armament  consisted  of  ten  brass  eighteens,  and  her  crew 
of  sixty  picked  seamen  —  an  abundance  of  men  to  work 
the  brig,  and  serve  her  batteries  with  satisfaction  and  credit. 

Not  to  keep  the  reader  any  longer  in  suspense  with  re 
gard  to  her  character  and  purpose,  we  will  inform  him  that 
the  Zanthe  was  a  smuggler,  and  for  some  years  had  been 
engaged  in  the  illegal  game  of  defrauding  the  revenue  of 
tl*«  Mexican  republic.  She  was  commanded  by  a  Scotch- 

339 


340  TIIK    CONTRABANDISTA. 

man  named  Morris,  and  her  first  mate  was  a  Yankee, 
answering  to  the  hail  of  Pardon  G.  Simpkins,  as  gallant  a 
fellow  and  as  good  a  seaman  as  ever  trod  a  plank.  It  was 
her  custom  to  land  contraband  goods  at  different  points 
upon  the  coast  where  lighters  were  kept  concealed,  and 
where  the  merchandise  was  taken  charge  of  by  the  shore- 
gang,  a  numerous  and  well-appointed  body  of  picked  men, 
mounted  and  armed  to  the  teeth,  and  provided  with  a  large 
number  of  mules  for  transporting  the  goods  into  the  in 
terior.  The  merchandise,  lightered  off  from  the  brig,  was 
hidden  in  the  chaparral,  if  it  came  on  shore  before  the 
mule  trains  were  ready,  and  it  was  piled  up  with  combus 
tibles,  in  such  a  manner  that,  should  the  vigilantes  surprise 
them  in  sufficient  numbers  to  effect  a  seizure,  and  over 
come  resistance,  a  match  thrown  among  the  booty  secured 
its  destruction  in  a  few  moments.  A  smoke  by  day  and  a 
fire  by  night,  upon  the  shore,  was  the  signal  for  the  brig  to 
approach  and  come  to  anchor. 

The  Zanthe,  as  we  before  said,  slowly  worked  her  way 
to  her  anchorage.  One  by  one,  her  white  sails,  on  which 
the  last  flush  of  the  sunset  fires  had  just  faded,  were  all 
furled,  and,  her  anchors  dropped,  she  swung  round  with  the 
tide,  and  rode  in  safety.  A  Bengola  light  was  displayed 
for  a  moment  from  the  foretop,  and  answered  by  another 
from  the  shore. 

"  All  right,  cap'n,"  said  the  mate,  walking  aft  to  where 
Morris  was  standing,  near  the  wheel.  "  The  critters  have 
seen  us,  and  that  are  firework  means  that  there  aint  no 
vigilantes  round  abeout.  I  spose  we  shall  hev  the  lighters 
along  side  airly  in  the  mornin'." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  captain.  "  I  wonder  whether  Don  Mar 
tinez  is  with  the  shore  gang." 

"Not   knowin',   can't   say,"   replied   the   mate.     "Most 


THE    CONTRABANDISTA.  #41 

likely  he  is,  howsomdever — 'cause  our  cargo  is  vallable, 
and  he'd  be  likely  to  look  after  it." 

"  You  know,  Pardon,"  said  the  captain,  "  this  is  to  be 
our  last  voyage." 

"  Edxactly,"  answered  the  mate. 

"  And  I  hope  it  will  turn  out  well  for  the  owners.  For 
my  part,  I'm  tired  of  this  life.  Circumstances  induced  me 
to  adopt  it ;  but  I  can't  say  that  in  my  conscience  I  have 
ever  approved  it." 

"Why,  cap'n,  you  astonish  me!"  exclaimed  the  mate. 
"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  think  it's  any  harm  to 
cheat  the  greasers." 

"  Yes  I  do,"  replied  the  captain,  shaking  his  head. 
"  And  I  think  the  aggravation  of  the  offence  is,  that  I  am 
an  adopted  citizen  of  the  republic  of  the  stars  and  stripes. 
I  am  engaged  in  defrauding  the  government  of  a  sister 
republic." 

"  A  pretty  sort  er  sister  republic,"  replied  the  mate,  dis 
dainfully.  "  A  poor,  miserable  set  of  thievin',  throat- 
cuttin',  monte-playin',  cattle-stealin',  bean-eatin'  griffins. 
If  our  government  had  had  any  spunk,  we'd  have  pitched 
into  'em  long  ago.  And  it  was  only  because  they're  weaker 
than  we  be,  that  we  haven't  licked  'em  into  spun  yarn." 

"But  suppose,  Pardon,  we  should  be  (a  chance  that, 
thank  Heaven,  has  never  yet  occurred)  overhauled  by  one 
of  their  revenue  cutters." 

"  The  little  Zanthe  could  walk  away  from  her  like  a 
racer  from  a  plough  horse." 

"  But,  supposing  we  were  surprised,  .fcid  lay  where  we 
could'nt  run." 

"  Cap'n,"  said  Pardon,  glancing  along  the  grim  batteries 
of  the  Zanthe,  "  do  you  see  them  are  lovely  bull  dogs  ? 
And  them  are  sturdy  Jacks  what's  a  sittin'  on  the  breeches 
29*  w 


342  THE    CONTRABANDISTA. 

of  the  guns?  What  on  airth  was  they  made  for?  A 
couple  of  broadsides,  starboard  and  larboard,  would  settle 
the  hash  of  the  smartest  revenue  cutter  that  ever  dipped 
her  fore  foot  in  the  water." 

"  And  the  after  thought  would  never  trouble  you,  Par 
don?" 

"  Never !  'shelp  me,  Bob,"  replied  the  mate,  energet 
ically.  "  Greasers  isn't  human  bein's.  Besides,  it's  all 
fair  play,  life  for  life,  and  the  gentleman  with  the  single 
fluke  tail  take  the  loser.  Haint  they  set  a  price  on  oui 
heads  ?  Eight  thousand  dollars  on  your'n,  and  five  thou 
sand  on  mine  ?  I  never  was  worth  five  thousand  down  at 
Portland ;  but  if  they've  marked  me  up  too  high,  it's  their 
own  look  out.  They'll  never  be  called  upon  to  pay  it. 
But  this  sellin'  a  fellur's  head  standin',  like  a  lot  of  fire 
wood,  is  excessively  aggravating  and  gets  a  fellur's  mad 
up.  But,  hallo,  cap'n,  here  comes  a  shore  boat.  I'll  bet 
it's  Don  Martinez." 

A  row  boat,  manned  by  eight  Mexicans,  with  a  muffled 
figure  in  the  stern  sheets,  now  pulled  out  for  the  brig,  and 
soon  lay  alongside.  On  being  challenged,  a  preconcerted 
watchword  was  given  in  reply,  and  the  oars  being  shipped, 
a  couple  of  boat  hooks  held  the  boat  fast  at  the  foot  of  the 
starboard  side-ladder.  This  done,  the  person  in  the  stern 
sheets  arose  and  prepared  to  ascend  the  brig's  side. 

"  Petticoats,  by  thunder  ! "  muttered  the  mate.  "  What 
does  this  mean,  cap'n  ?  " 

Captain  Morris  was  evidently  surprised  at  the  sex  of  his 
visitor,  but  he  assisted  and  welcomed  her  on  board  with  the 
frank  courtesy  of  a  seaman.  The  light  of  a  battle  lantern 
that  stood  upon  the  harness  cask,  displayed  the  dark  but 
handsome  features  of  a  young  Mexican  senorita,  whose 
email  and  graceful  hand,  sparkling  with  rings,  gathered  her 


THE    CONTRABAND ISTA.  843 

Bilken  rebosa  around  her  symmetrical  figure,  in  folds  that 
would  have  enchanted  an  artist. 

"  Senor  captain,"  said  she,  "  I  bear  you  a  message  from 
Martinez.  He  bade  me  tell  you  to  land  half  your  cargo 
here  to-morrow,  as  before  agreed  upon.  The  remainder 
goes  to  Santa  Rosara,  fifty  miles  to  the  northward,  where 
he  awaits  you  with  a  chosen  band." 

"  Senorita,"  replied  the  captain,  with  hesitation,  "  it  were 
ungallant  to  express  a  doubt.  But  ours  is  a  perilous  busi 
ness,  and  on  the  mere  word  of  a  stranger  —  though  that 
stranger  be  an  accomplished  lady " 

"O,  I  come  furnished  with  credentials,  senor,"  inter 
rupted  the  lady,  with  a  smile  ;  "  there  is  a  letter  from  Mar 
tinez." 

Captain  Morris  hastily  perused  the  letter  which  the  lady 
handed  him.  Its  contents  vouched  for  her  fidelity,  and,  in 
timating  that  the  lady  was  a  dear  friend  of  his,  and  likely 
to  be  soon  intimately  connected  with  him,  committed  her  to 
the  charge  of  the  captain,  and  requested  him  to  bring  her 
on  to  Santa  Rosara  on  board  the  brig. 

Morris  immediately  expressed  his  sense  of  the  honor  done 
him,  and  escorted  the  senorita  below,  where  he  abandoned 
his  state  room  and  cabin  to  her  use.  Pardon  G.  Simpkins 
walked  his  watch  in  great  ill  humor,  muttering  to  himself 
incessantly. 

"  What  in  the  blazes  keeps  these  here  women  folks  contin 
ually  emergin'  from  their  aliment  and  mixin'  into  other 
spheres?  They're  well  enough  ashore,  but  on  soundin's 
and  blue  water  they  beat  old  Nick.  And  aboard  a  contra- 
landista,  too!  It's  enough  to  make  a  Quaker  kick  his 
grandmother.  Howsomdever,  Morris  is  just  soft-headed 
fool  enough  to  like  it,  and  think  it  all  fine  fun.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  was  ass  enough  to  get  spliced  one  of  these  days. 


344  THE    CONTRABANDIST  A. 

and  take  his  wife  to  sea.  I  think  I  see  a  doggarytypc 
of  myself  took  as.  mate  of  a  vessel  that  sails  with  a  cap'n's 
wife  aboard." 

And,  chuckling  at  this  idea,  he  put  an  extra  quid  in  his 
mouth,  and  ruminated  in  a  better  frame  of  mind. 

In  the  morning,  Mr.  Simpkins  turned  out  betimes  to  pre 
pare  for  the  landing  of  a  portion  of  the  cargo ;  and  he  was 
busied  in  this  duty,  when  an  incident  occurred  that  might 
well  have  startled  a  less  ready  and  self-possessed  man  than 
the  mate  of  the  Zanthe. 

Suddenly  rounding  the  headland  on  the  north,  a  cutter, 
with  the  Mexican  flag  flying  at  her  mizzen  peak,  and  the 
muzzles  of  her  guns  gleaming  through  the  port  holes,  came 
in  view  of  the  astonished  mate.  She  stood  into  the  bay,  till 
within  rifle  shot  of  the  bow  of  the  Zanthe,  when  she  dropped 
her  sails  and  came  to  anchor. 

As  she  accomplished  this  manoeuvre,  the  mate  mustered 
the  crew,  run  out  his  guns,  which  were  all  shotted,  and  then 
quietly  roused  the  captain  and  brought  him  on  deck. 

"  That  looks  a  little  wicked,  cap'n,"  said  the  mate,  point 
ing  at  the  revenue  cutter. 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"Now,  cap'n,"  said  the  mate,  briskly,  "just  speak  the 
word,  and  I'll  give  him  my  starboard  battery  before  the  slow- 
motioned  critter  fires  a  gun." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  wait ! " 

Mr.  Simpkins  looked  fixedly  at  the  captain,  thrust  his 
hands  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  pea  jacket,  and  sitting 
down  on  the  breech  of  a  gun,  whistled  Yankee  Doodle  in 
such  slow  time  that  it  sounded  like  a  dead  march. 

In  another  minute,  a  barge  was  lowered  from  the  side  of 
the  Mexican  cutter,  and  manned  with  armed  sailors,  while 
an  officer  in  uniform  took  his  seat  in  the  stern  sheets. 


THE    CONTRABANDISTA.  345 

The  barge  pulled  alongside,  Captain  Morris  neither 
hailing  nor  offering  to  take  any  action  in  the  premises. 
Leaving  only  a  boatkeeper  in  the  barge,  the  Mexican  officer, 
followed  by  his  crew,  sprang  up  the  ladder,  and  bounding 
on  deck,  struck  his  drawn  sword  on  the  capstan,  and  an 
nounced  the  Zanthe  as  his  prize. 

"  To  whom  shall  I  have  the  honor  of  surrendering  ? " 
asked  Captain  Morris,  touching  his  hat. 

"  My  name,"  said  the  officer,  glancing  from  a  paper  he 
held  in  his  hand,  as  he  spoke,  "  is  Captain  Ramon  Morena, 
of  the  Vengador  cutter.  You,  I  presume,  are  Captain  Mor 
ris,  of  the  Zanthe." 

Morris  bowed. 

"  And  you  are  Pardon  G.  Simpkins,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
Mexican,  addressing  the  mate. 

"Pardon  G.  Simpkins  —  five  thousand  dollars,"  replied 
that  gentleman. 

u  Captain  Morena,"  said  Morris,  "  before  we  proceed  to 
business,  do  me  the  favor  to  walk  into  my  cabin.  While 
we  are  below,"  he  added,  "  I  trust  your  men  will  be  ordered 
not  to  maltreat  my  poor  fellows." 

The  Mexican  captain  glanced,  with  some  surprise,  at  the 
formidable  array  of  men  upon  the  deck  of  the  Zanthe,  and 
then,  after  a  few  words  in  Spanish  to  his  boat's  crew,  fol 
lowed  the  captain  and  mate  into  the  cabin. 

Captain  Morena  was  a  very  fine  looking  man  of  thirty, 
with  magnificent  hair  and  mustaches,  and  wore  a  very  showy 
uniform.  He  threw  himself  carelessly  upon  the  transom,  and 
laid  his  sword  upon  the  cabin  table,  while  Morris  and  the 
mate  seated  themselves  on  camp  stools. 

"  Serior  capitan,"  said  Morris,  "  I  trust,  though  it  be  early 
in  the  day,  that  you  have  no  objection  to  take  a  glass  of 
wine  with  me." 


84.6  THE    CONTRABANDISTA. 

The  Mexican  assented  to  the  proposition,  and  the  steward 
produced  a  bottle,  glasses,  and  cigars. 

"  Your  health,  capitan,"  said  Morris,  with  a  courteous 
Binile ;  "  and  may  you  ever  be  as  successful  as  on  the  present 
occasion." 

"Muchas  gracias  senor,"  replied  the  Mexican;  "you 
bear  the  loss  of  your  brig  very  good  humoredly.  What 
may  she  be  worth  ?  " 

"  She  cost  thirty  thousand  dollars  in  Baltimore,"  replied 
Morris. 

"  You  must  regret  to  lose  her." 

"  That  admits  no  question,  senor." 

"  But  that  is  of  minor  importance,  compared  with  your 
other  loss." 

"What  loss?" 

"  The  loss  of  your  life.  I  fear  nothing  can  save  you  or 
your  friend  here.  Yet,  perhaps,  intercession  may  do  some 
thing.  I  suppose  you  would  prefer  being  shot  to  hanging 
from  the  yard-arm." 

"  Decidedly,"  answered  Morris. 

"  Or  working  for  life  on  the  highway,  with  a  ball  and 
chain,  you  would  think  preferable  to  both." 

"  Cap'n  Morris,"  said  the  mate,  speaking  in  English,  "  it 
strikes  me  that  our  friend  in  the  hairy  face  is  a  leetle  grain 
out  in  his  reckoning ;  'pears  to  me,  that  instead  of  our  bein' 
in  his  power,  he's  in  ourn.  Just  say  the  word,  and  I'll  gin 
the  Vengador  a  broadside  that'll  sink  her  in  the  shiver  of  a 
main  topsail." 

"  You  are  right,  Pardon,"  said  the  captain,  smiling ;  "  the 
gentleman  has  missed  a  figure,  certainly.  Captain  Morena," 
he  added,  speaking  in  Spanish,  "  you  have  made  a  small 
mistake  ;  you  are  my  prisoner,  sir.  Nay,  start  not ;  you  are 
completely  in  my  power.  Dare  but  to  breathe  another  word 


TEE    CONTRA.BA.ND  1ST  A.  347 

of  menace,  or  offer  to  resist  me,  and  the  Yengador  shall 
go  to  Davy  Jones.  Pass  me  that  sword." 

Morena,  taken  by  surprise,  obeyed. 

"  Gi'  me  his  toastin'  fork,  cap'n,"  said  the  mate,  "  and  I'll 
lock  it  up  in  my  state  room ; "  which  was  done  almost  as 
soon  as  said. 

"And  now,  Captain  Morena,"  said  Morris,  "just  walk 
on  deck  and  explain  matters  to  your  people,  and  then  I'll 
show  you  how  fast  a  Yankee  crew  and  Mexican  lightermen 
can  unload  a  contrabandista." 

They  adjourned  to  the  deck,  and  the  Mexican  captain 
was  compelled  to  remain  an  inactive  witness,  while  boat  load 
after  boat  load  of  contraband  goods  was  landed  under  his  own 
eyes,  and  the  very  guns  of  his  cutter.  When  the  work  was 
finished,  Captain  Morris  approached  Morena,  and  said,  — 

"  Captain,  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you.  I  am  going  up 
the  coast  fifty  miles,  to  land  the  remainder  of  my  cargo  at 
Santa  Rosara.  Give  me  your  word  that  you  will  not  fol 
low  and  molest  me,  that  you  will  not  breathe  a  word  of 
what  you  have  seen  and  heard,  and  I  will  restore  your 
sword  and  release  you  on  parole." 

The  revenue  captain  gave  the  required  pledge,  and  his 
sword  was  restored ;  after  which  his  men  were  permitted 
to  man  the  barge. 

"And  now,  captain,  one  bumper  at  parting,"  said  the 
hospitable  Morris.  "  The  steward  has  just  opened  a  fresh 
bottle,  and  besides  I  have  a  pleasant  surprise  for  you." 

As  they  entered  the  cabin,  Morena  started  back  and 
uttered  an  exclamation  as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  beautiful  face 
and  graceful  figure  of  the  Mexican  senorita,  who  had  taken 
her  seat  at  the  table. 

"  Maria  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lady,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  height- 


348  THE    CONTRABANDISTA. 

ened  color.  "  I  have  escaped  your  power.  The  man  who 
basely  sought  to  coerce  my  inclinations  has  been  baffled, 
and  ere  another  sun  has  set,  I  shall  be  the  bride  of  the 
smuggler  Martinez." 

"  Malediction  ! "  cried  the  Mexican. 

"  Come,  come,  cap'n,"  said  the  mate,  "  take  a  horn,  and 
settle  your  proud  stomach." 

"  Never,"  said  the  Mexican.  "  A  curse  on  all  of  ye  ! " 
and  he  sprang  to  the  deck,  threw  himself  into  his  barge, 
and  was  soon  aboard  of  the  cutter. 

As  the  clipper  brig,  with  all  her  canvas  set,  and  her  lar 
board  tacks  aboard,  bowed  gracefully  to  the  freshening 
oreeze,  and  bowled  away  under  the  stern  of  the  Mexican 
cutter,  the  mate  said  to  the  captain,  — 

"  Cap'n,  I  wish  you'd  just  let  me  give  that  fellur  a  broad 
side,  if  it  was  only  just  to  clean  the  guns,  afore  I  run 
'em  in." 

"No,  no,"  replied  the  captain,  smiling,  "honor  bright, 
my  boy.  We'll  keep  our  word  to  him." 

"  That's  more  than  he'll  do  to  us,"  answered  the  mate, 
"  or  I  don't  know  the  natur  of  a  greaser.     One  broadside 
from  our  starboard  battery  would  settle  him,  and  save  all 
future  trouble,  and  make  every  thing  pleasant  and  com 
fortable  on  all  sides." 

But  Captain  Morris  would  not  listen  to  reason,  and  so 
the  guns  were  secured,  and  the  ports  closed,  and  the  little 
Zanthe  went  bounding  on  her  course  to  Santa  Rosara. 

She  came  to  anchor  in  a  deep  bay  which  she  entered  at 
nightfall,  and  almost  immediately  a  shore  boat,  under  the 
command  of  Martinez,  boarded  the  brig.  The  meeting 
between  the  smuggler  and  his  bride  was  so  affectionate,  as 
to  call  a  tear  even  into  the  eye  of  Mr.  Pardon  G.  Simpkins. 
The  smuggler  laughed  loudly  when  he  heard  of  the  discom- 


THE    CONTRABANDISTA.  349 

fiture  of  Captain  Morena,  the  discarded  suitor  of  the  senori- 
ta  Maria. 

The  next  day  all  hands  were  employed  in  landing  the 
remainder  of  the  cargo,  and  at  night  a  very  worthy  and 
accommodating  priest  ca-me  off  from  the  shore,  and  united 
Martinez  and  Maria  in  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony.  The 
nuptials  were  celebrated  with  great  rejoicings  and  revelry, 
and  the  fun  was  kept  up  till  a  late  hour  of  the  night,  when 
ihe  happy  couple  retired  to  the  cabin. 

The  first  faint  streaks  of  dawn  were  beginning  to  appear 
in  the  east,  when  the  ever  vigilant  ear  of  the  mate,  who 
never  took  a  wink  of  sleep  while  the  brig  was  lying  on 
shore,  detected  the  cautious  plunge  of  oars,  and  soon  he 
Descried  a  barge  pulling  towards  the  brig. 

"Catch  a  weazle  asleep,"  said  the  Yankee  to  himself; 
"  these  greasers  don't  know  as  much  as  a  farrer  hen."  And 
without  arousing  the  captain,  he  quietly  mustered  the  crew, 
and  with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  the  guns  were  run  out 
upon  the  starboard  side,  which  the  boat  was  fast  approach 
ing. 

A  moment  after  he  hailed.  No  answer  was  given,  but 
the  light  of  the  lanterns  flashed  on  the  arms  of  a  large  body 
of  men,  and  the  mate  recognized  the  figure  of  the  captain 
of  the  Vengador  in  the  stern  sheets. 

"  Sheer  off,"  shouted  the  mate,  "  or  by  the  shade  of 
Gin'ral  Jackson,  I'll  blow  you  all  to  Davy  Jones." 

"  Pull  for  your  lives,"  shouted  the  voice  of  Morena ;  and 
the  boat  bounded  towards  the  brig. 

"  Fire  ! "  cried  the  mate. 

Crash  went  the  guns  !  The  iron  hurtled  through  the 
air,  and  the  splintering  of  wood,  as  the  metal  struck  the 
barge,  was  distinctly  heard  amid  the  groans  and  shrieks  ol 


the  vigilantes. 


30 


350  THE    CONTRABANDISTA. 

In  one  moment  it  was  all  over.  Morris  and  Martinez 
rushed  to  the  deck. 

"  What's  the  matter.  Pardon  ?  "  asked  the  former. 

"  Nothin',  cap'n  —  cap'n,  nothin',"  answered  the  mate. 
"  Only  there  aint  quite  so  many  greasers  in  the  world  at 
present,  as  there  was  five  minutes  since.  Morena  broke 
his  parole,  and  tried  to  board  us  by  surprise,  and  I  gin*  him 
my  starboard  battery  —  that's  all." 

"  Then  I'm  off  for  blue  water !  "  cried  the  captain. 

"  And  I  for  the  mountains  ! "  said  Martinez.  "  Tho 
mules  are  all  packed  and  the  horses  saddled.  The  vigi 
lantes  must  wear  sharp  spurs  if  they  catch  us." 

It  was  a  hurried  parting  —  that  of  the  smuggler  and  his 
bride  with  the  captain  and  mate  of  the  Zanthe.  But  they 
got  safely  on  shore,  and  the  whole  band  effected  their 
escape. 

The  Zanthe  spread  her  wings,  and  some  days  afterwards 
was  crossing  the  equator.  She  was  never  known  again  as 
a  free  trader.  The  captain  and  mate  had  both  "  made  their 
piles,"  and  after  arriving  at  the  Atlantic  states  retired  from 
sea.  Pardon  G.  Simpkins  took  up  his  residence  in  Boston, 
and  during  the  late  war  with  Mexico,  was  very  prominent 
in  his  denunciations  of  that  republic,  and  very  liberal  in  his 
donations  to  the  Massachusetts  regiment,  to  the  members  ol 
which  his  parting  admonition  was,  to  "  give  them  greasers 
Bts," 


THE   STAGE-STRUCK  GENTLEMAN. 

FEW  amateurs  of  the  drama  have  passed  through  theif 
town  lives,  without  having  been,  at  some  one  period  of  their 
career,  what  is  called  stage  struck,  afflicted  with  a  mania 
cal  desire  to  make  a  "  first  appearance,"  to  be  designated 
in  posters  as  a  "  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN  OF  THIS  CITY,"  in 
connection  with  one  Mr.  Shakspeare,  the  "  author  of  cer 
tain  plays."  The  stage-struck  youth  is  easily  recognized 
by  certain  symptoms  which  manifest  themselves  at  an  early 
stage  of  the  disorder.  He  is  apt  to  pass  his  hand  fre 
quently  through  his  "  horrent  locks,"  to  frown  darkly  with 
out  any  possible  reason,  and  to  look  daggers  at  his  landlady 
when  invited  to  help  himself  to  brown-bread  toast.  His 
voice,  in  imitation  of  the  "  Boy,"  the  "  Great  American 
tragedian,"  alternates  between  the  deep  bass  of  a  veteran 
porker  and  the  mellifluous  tenor  of  a  "  pig's  whisper."  He 
is  apt  to  roll  his  eyes  quickly  from  side  to  side,  to  gnsp  and 
heave  his  chest  most  unaccountably.  He  reads  nothing  of 
the  papers  but  the  theatrical  advertisements  and  critiques. 
He  has  an  acquaintance  with  two  or  three  fourth-rate  stock 
actors  and  a  scene  shifter,  and  is  consequently  "  up  "  in  any 
amount  of  professional  information  and  slang,  which  he 
retails  to  every  one  he  meets,  without  regard  to  the  taste 
or  time  of  his  auditors.  Have  you  seen  the  new  drama  of 
the  Parricidal  Oysterman  ?  If  you  have,  you  must  agree 
with  him  it  is  the  greatest  affair  old  Pel.  has  ever  broight 

351 


352  THE    STAGE-STRUCK    GENTLEMAN. 

out ;  if  you  have  not,  you  must  submit  to  his  contemptuous 
pity  for  your  ignorance.  For  a  person  who  passes  his 
evenings  in  the  society  of  books  and  friends,  or  in  the 
country,  the  stage-struck  gentleman  has  the  most  profound 
contempt.  How  one  can  live  without  nightly  inhaling  the 
odor  of  gas  and  orange  peel,  is  to  him  a  mystery  inexplica 
ble.  He  is  aided  and  abetted  in  his  practices  by  the  sym 
pathy  and  example  of  other  stage-struck  youths,  all  "fore 
doomed  their  fathers'  soul  to  cross,"  all  loathing  their  daily 
avocations  for  the  time  being,  all  spending  their  earnings, 
or  borrowings,  or  stealings,  on  bits  of  pasteboard  that  admit 
them  to  their  nightly  banquet.  The  stage  struck  always 
copy  the  traits  of  the  leading  actor  of  the  hour,  whoever  he 
may  be,  and  grunt  and  bluster  in  imitation  of  "  Ned " — 
meaning  Forrest  —  or  quack  and  stutter  a  la  "  Bill  "  —  that 
is,  Macready  —  as  the  wind  of  popular  favor  veers  and 
changes.  It  is  curious,  at  a  representation  of  the  "  Gladia 
tor,"  to  winnow  these  young  gentlemen  from  the  mass  by 
•the  lens  of  an  opera  glass.  There  you  may  see  the  knit 
brows,  the  high  shirt  collars,  the  folded  arms,  the  pursed-up 
iips,  the  hats  drawn  down  over  the  eyes,  that  are  the  cer 
tain  indications  of  the  stage-struck  Forrestians. 

If,  after  the  performance,  fate  and  a  designing  oysterman 
place  you  in  the  next  box  to  three  or  four  of  these  genius 
es,  you  will,  unless  very  much  of  a  philosopher,  be  dis 
gusted,  for  the  time  being,  with  human  nature.  Their  pal 
try  imitations,  their  miserable  brayings,  their  misquotations 
from  Shakspeare,  their  mendacious  accounts  of  interviews 
with  the  "  Boy,"  will  be  enough  to  drive  you  mad.  Some 
such  thing  as  the  following  will  occur :  — 

Waiter.  Here  are  your  oysters,  gentlemen  ;  ("  a  slight 
shade  of  irony  in  the  emphasis.") 

Stage-struck  Youth,  No.  1,  (in  a  deep  guttural  tone.)  "  Let 
em  come  in  —  we're  armed  !  " 


TIIE    STAGE-STRUCK    GENTLEMAN.  353 

Staye-struck  Youth,  No.   2,  (to  waiter.)     "  Red  ruffian, 
retire  !  " 

Stage-struck  Youth,  No.  3,  (to  Stage-struck  Youth,  No.  4.) 
"  How  are  you  now,  Dick  ?  " 

Stage-struck  Youth,  No.  4.     "  Richard's  himself  again  ! " 

O,  Dii  immortales  !  can  these  things  be  ?  In  other  words, 
can  such  animals  exist  ? 

.  It  has  been  calculated  by  a  celebrated  mathematician, 
that  out  of  every  fourteen  dozen  of  these  stage-struck 
young  gentlemen,  one  actually  makes  a  first  appearance. 
This  event  causes  an  enormous  flutter  in  the  circle  of  aspi 
rants  from  which  the  promotion  takes  place.  As  the  event 
ful  night  approaches,  the  most  active  and  enterprising  among 
them  besiege  the  newspapers  with  elaborate  puffs  of  their 
confrere,  a  column  long,  and  are  astonished  and  enraged 
that  editors  exclude  them  entirely,  or  exscissorize  them  to  a 
dozen  lines.  Of  what  importance  is  the  foreign  news,  in 
comparison  with  the  first  appearance  of  Bill  Smithy  in  the 
arduous  character  of  Hamlet?  Has  Colonel  Greene  no* 
sympathy  with  struggling  genius  ?  Or  is  it  the  result  of  an 
infernal  plot  of  the  actors  to  put  down  competition,  and  sus 
tain  a  professional  monopoly  ? 

The  stage-struck  young  gentleman  has  passed  through 
the  fiery  ordeal  of  "  rehearsals,"  has  been  duly  pushed  and 
shaken  into  his  "  suit  of  sables,"  glittering  with  steel  bugles, 
his  hands  have  been  adorned  with  black  kids,  his  plumed 
hat  rests  upon  his  brow,  his  rapier  dangles  at  his  side. 
The  curtain  goes  up  and  he  is  pushed  upon  the  stage.  His 
first  appearance  is  the  signal  for  a  thundering  round  of 
generous  applause,  in  which  his  faithful  fellow-Forrestians 
are  leading  claquers.  But  the  audience  soon  discover  that 
he  is  a  "  guy  "  escaped  from  the  surveillance  of  an  anxious 
mother.  The  stage-struck  young  gentleman  is  "goosed." 
30* 


854  THE    STAGE-STRUCK    GENTLEMAN. 

Storms  of  hisses  or  bursts  of  ironical  applause  greet  every 
sentence  that  he  utters,  and  the  curtain  finally  falls  on  his 
disgrace.  This  generally  cures  the  disease  of  which  we 
have  been  speaking.  A  night  of  agony,  a  week  of  pain, 
and  the  young  gentleman,  disenchanted  and  disenthralled, 
looks  back  upon  his  temporary  mania  with  feelings  of 
humiliation  and  surprise,  cuts  his  aiders  and  abettors,  and 
betakes  himself  seriously  to  the  rational  business  of  life. 

But  there  are  some  stage-struck  gentlemen  whom  nothing 
can  convince  of  their  total  unfitness  for  the  stage.  You 
may  hiss  them  night  after  night,  you  may  present  them 
with  bouquets  of  carrots,  and  wreaths  of  cabbage  leaves  and 
onions,  and  leather  medals,  and  services  of  tin  plate ;  and  if 
you  find  them  "  insensible  to  kindness,"  you  may  try  brick 
bats  —  but  in  vain.  They  will  cling  to  the  stage  for  life 
—  living,  or  rather  starving,  as  attaches  to  some  theatre, 
the  signal  for  disturbance  whenever  they  present  them 
selves  ;  detected  by  the  lynx  eyes  of  the  public,  whether 
disguised  as  Roman  citizens  or  Neapolitan  brigands,  anc 
severely  punished  for  incompetency  by  heaped-up  insult 
and  abuse.  These  men  live  and  die  miserably  ;  yet,  doubt 
less,  their  lives  are  checkered  with  rays  of  hope ;  they 
regard  themselves  as  martyrs,  and  die  with  the  secret 
consciousness  that  they  have  "  acted  well  their  parts." 


THE   DIAMOND   STAR; 

OR, 

THE   ENGLISHMAN'S   ADVENTURE. 

A  STORY  OF  VALENCIA. 

IN  a  fine  summer  night  in  the  latter  half  of  the  seven 
teenth  century,  (the  day  and  year  are  immaterial,)  Clarence 
Landon,  a  handsome  and  high-spirited  young  Englishman, 
who  had  been  passing  some  time  in  the  south  of  Spain,  was 
standing  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquiver,  in  the  environs 
of  the  ancient  city  of  Valencia,  watching  with  anxious  eyes 
the  fading  sails  of  a  small  felucca,  just  visible  in  the  golden 
rays  of  the  rising  moon,  as,  catching  a  breath  of  the  fresh 
ening  western  breeze,  they  bore  the  light  craft  out  upon 
the  blue  bosom  of  the  Mediterranean.  Though  the  scene 
was  one  of  surpassing  beauty,  though  the  air  was  balmy, 
and  came  to  his  brow  laden  with  the  fragrance  of  the 
orange,  the  myrtle,  and  the  rose,  the  expression  of  the 
young  man's  face  was  melancholy  in  the  extreme. 

"  Too  late ! "  he  muttered  to  himself ;  "  too  late  !  It  is 
hard,  after  having  ventured  so  much  for  them,  that  I  should 
have  been  baffled  in  my  attempt  to  escape  with  them. 
However,  they  are  safe  and  happy.  If  this  breeze  holds, 
they  will  soon  pass  Cape  St.  Martin.  Dear  Estella,  how 
I  value  this  pledge  of  your  friendship  and  gratitude." 

355 


356  THE    DIAMOND    STAR. 

And  the  young  man,  after  raising  to  his  lips  a  small 
diamond  star,  attached  to  a  golden  chain,  deposited  the 
trinket  in  his  bosom,  and  then,  with  a  parting  glance  at  the 
distant  vessel,  turned  homewards  in  the  direction  of  the  city 
gates. 

Absorbed  in  his  own  reflections,  he  did  not  notice  that 
his  footsteps  were  dogged  by  a  tall  figure,  muffled  in  a 
black  cloak,  which  pursued  him  in  the  moonlight,  like  his 
shadow,  and  left  him  only  when  he  entered  his  posada. 

Landon  spent  some  time  in  his  room  in  reading  and  arran 
ging  letters  and  papers  ;  and  when  the  clock  of  a  neighboring 
cathedral  sounded  the  hour  of  eleven,  threw  himself  upon  his 
bed  without  undressing,  and  was  soon  asleep.  From  a  dis 
turbed  and  unrefreshing  slumber,  crowded  with  vexatious 
visions,  he  was  suddenly  and  rudely  roused  by  a  rough  hand 
laid  upon  his  shoulder.  He  started  upright  in  bed,  and  gazed 
around  him  with  astonishment.  His  chamber  was  filled 
by  half  a  dozen  sinister-looking  men,  robed  entirely  in  black, 
in  whom  he  recognized,  not  without  a  shudder,  the  dreaded 
familiars  of  the  Holy  Office,  the  officials  of  the  Inquisitorial 
Tribune.  His  first  impulse  was  to  grope  for  his  arms  ;  but 
his  sword  and  pistols  had  been  removed.  A  rough  voice 
bade  him  arise  and  follow,  and  he  had  no  choice  but  to 
obey  the  mandate.  Preceded  and  followed  by  the  familiars, 
who  were  all  armed,  as  he  judged  by  the  clash  of  steel 
that  attended  each  footstep,  though  no  weapons  were  appar 
ent,  he  descended  the  staircase,  came  out  upon  the  street, 
and  was  conducted  through  many  a  winding  lane  and  pas 
sage  to  a  low-browed  arch,  which  opened  into  the  basement 
story  of  a  huge  embattled  building,  that  rose  like  a  fortress 
before  him.  The  conductor  of  the  band  halted  here,  and 
knocking  thrice  upon  an  oaken  door,  studded  with  huge 
iron  nails,  it  was  opened  silently,  and  the  party  entered  a 


THE    DIAMOND    STAR.  357 

d«trk,  subterranean  passage  of  stone,  lighted  only  by  a  smoky 
cresset  lamp  swinging  in  a  recess. 

After  passing  through  this  corridor,  Landon  was  conduct 
ed  into  a  huge  vaulted  hall,  dimly  illuminated  by  the  branch 
es  of  an  iron  chandelier,  by  whose  light  he  discovered  in 
front  of  him  a  raised  platform,  on  which  were  seated  three 
men,  robed  in  black,  while  before  them,  at  a  table,  sat  two 
others,  similarly  attired,  with  writing  implements  before 
them.  On  the  platform  was  planted  a  huge  banner,  the 
blazon  on  the  folds  of  which  was  a  wooden  cross,  flanked 
by  a  branch  of  olive  and  a  naked  sword,  the  motto  being, 
" Exurge,  Domine,  et  judica  causani  tuam"  Rise,  Lord, 
and  judge  thy  cause.  It  wanted  neither  this  formidable 
standard,  nor  the  implements  of  torture  scattered  around,  to 
convince  the  young  Englishman  that  he  stood  in  the  halls 
of  the  Inquisition. 

After  being  permitted  to  stand  some  time  before  the 
judges,  that  his  mind  night  be  impressed  with  the  terrors  of 
the  place,  the  principal  Inquisitor  addressed  him,  demand 
ing  his  name." 

"  Clarence  Landon,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Your  birthplace  ?  " 

w  London,  England." 

"  Your  age  ?  " 

"  Twenty-five  years." 

"  Occupation  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  with  no  pursuit  but  that 
of  knowledge  and  pleasure." 

"  You  are  accused,"  said  the  judge,  "  of  having  aided  and 
abetted  a  countryman  of  yours,  named  Walter  Hamilton, 
in  seducing  and  carrying  off  Estella  Martinez,  a  lady  of  a 
noble  house,  and  a  sister  of  St.  Ursula.  How  say  you,  guilty 
or  not  guilty  ?  " 

x 


858  THE    DIAMOND    STAR 

u  I  am  not  guilty  —  I  am  not  capable  of  the  infamy  tvith 
which  you  charge  me." 

"  He  refuses  to  confess,"  said  the  judge,  turning  to  a 
familiar,  the  sworn  tormentor.  "  We  must  try  the  question. 
Sanchez,  is  the  rack  prepared  ?  " 

The  man  addressed  was  a  brawny,  muscular  ruffian, 
with  a  livid  and  forbidding  countenance,  whose  dark  eyes 
sparkled  with  pleasure  as  he  bowed  assent  to  the  interro 
gation. 

"  Hold !  "  cried  Landon.  "  The  truth  can  no  longer 
harm  any  but  myself;  and  though  you  may  inflict  death 
upon  me,  you  shall  not  enjoy  the  fiendish  satisfaction  of 
mutilating  my  limbs  with  your  horrid  enginery.  I  did  aid 
Hamilton,  not  indeed  in  ruining  an  injured  maiden,  but  in 
rescuing  from  the  thraldom  sha  abhorred  a  lovely  lady 
whom  Providence  formed  to  make  the  happiness  of  an  hon 
orable  man.  By  this  time  Estella  is  a  happy  bride." 

"  Her  joys  will  be  shortened,"  said  the  inquisitor,  frown 
ing.  "They  cannot  long  elude  the  power  of  Rodrigo 
d' Almonte,  at  once  judge  of  the  Holy  Office  and  governor  of 
Valencia." 

"  Moderate  your  transports,  governor,"  replied  the  Eng 
lishman,  boldly ;  "  the  fugitives  are  beyond  youi  reach. 
This  very  night  a  swift-winged  felucca  bore  them  away 
from  these  accursed  shores,  to  a  land  of  liberty  and  happi 
ness." 

The  brow  of  Rodrigo  grew  black  as  night. 

"  Insolent ! "  he  answered ;  "  you  have  outraged  and  set  at 
naught  the  authority  of  church  and  state ;  your  life  shall 
pay  the  forfeit." 

"  Be  it  so,"  replied  Landon,  folding  his  arms ;  "  but  let 
me- tell  you,  that  for  every  drop  of  blood  shed,  my  country 


THE   DIAMOND    STAR.  359 

will  demand  a  life.     The  cross  of  St.  George  protects  the 
meanest  subject  of  the  English  crown." 

Rodrigo  d' Almonte  made  no  reply,  but  waving  his  hand, 
Landon  was  removed  from  the  tribunal  and  thrown  into  a 
dungeon  on  the  same  floor  with  the  hall  of  torture. 

Towards  the  close  of  a  sultry  summer  day,  the  narrow 
streets  of  Valencia  wore  an  aspect  of  unusual  activity  and 
life,  filled,  as  they  were,  with  representatives  of  every  class 
of  citizens.  The  tide  of  human  beings  seemed  to  be  setting 
in  one  direction,  towards  a  plaza,  or  square,  in  the  centre. 
The  Alameda  was  deserted  by  its  fashionable  promenaders ; 
and  young  and  old  —  all,  indeed,  who  were  not  bedridden  — 
were  at  length  congregated  in  the  square.  The  attraction 
was  soon  explained ;  for  in  the  centre  of  the  plaza  was  seen 
a  lofty  platform  of  wood,  on  which  was  erected  a  stout  stake 
or  pillar,  to  which  was  affixed  an  iron  chain  and  ring. 
Around  this  were  heaped,  to  the  height  of  several  feet,  huge 
fagots  of  dry  wood,  ready  for  the  torch.  A  large  body  of 
men-at-arms  kept  the  crowd  back  from  a  large  open  space 
around  the  platform.  These  preparations  were  made,  so 
the  popular  rumor  ran,  for  the  punishment  of  a  young 
Englishman,  who  had  aided  a  Spanish  nun  in  the  violation 
of  her  vows. 

The  numerous  bells  of  the  city  were  tolling  heavily  ;  and  at 
length,  after  the  patience  of  the  populace  had  been  nearly  ex 
hausted,  the  head  of  a  column  of  men,  marching  in  slow  time, 
was  seen  to  enter  upon  the  plaza.  First  came  the  governor's 
guard,  their  steel  caps  and  cuirasses  and  halberds  polished 
like  silver.  After  these,  walked  the  officials  of  the  In 
quisition,  and  some  friars  of  the  order  of  St.  Dominic,  sur 
rounding  the  unfortunate  Landon,  who  wore  the  corazo,  or 
pointed  cap,  upon  his  head,  and  the  san  benito,  a  robe  painted 


860  THE    DIAMOND    STAR. 

all  over  with  flames  and  devils,  typifying  the  awful  fate 
which  awaited  him.  He  ascended  the  scaffold  with  a  firm 
step,  while  the  cortege  ranged  themselves  around  it ;  and 
the  governor  of  Valencia,  mounted  on  a  splendid  barbed 
charger,  and  wearing  his  inquisitorial  robes  over  his  military 
uniform,  rode  into  the  square,  amid  the  vivas  of  the  crowd 
and  the  presented  arms  of  the  troops,  and  made  a  sign  for 
the  ceremony  to  proceed. 

As  an  officer,  appointed  for  the  purpose,  was  about  to 
read  the  sentence,  a  great  tumult  arose  in  the  square,  and 
attracted  the  attention  of  all  the  spectators. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Alvarez  ? "  asked  the 
governor,  addressing  one  of  his  lieutenants. 

"  The  people,  please  your  excellency,  have  got  hold  of 
Isaac,  the  rich  Jew,  and  insist  on  his  beholding  the  august 
spectacle  of  the  auto  dafe." 

"  The  unbelieving  dog  has  never  liked  these  brave  shows," 
answered  the  governor,  with  a  grim  smile,  "  since  his  well- 
beloved  brother,  Issachar,  expiated  his  heresy  on  this  spot 
in  the  great  auto,  when  we  burned  twenty  of  his  tribe  before 
the  king.  Beshrew  my  heart !  he  abuses  my  clemency  in 
permitting  him  to  hold  house  and  gold  here  in  Valencia. 
He  shall  behold  the  execution  !  Make  room  there,  and  drag 
him  into  the  heart  of  the  hollow  square." 

The  cruel  order  was  obeyed ;  and  the  old  Jew,  who  was 
a  -mild  and  venerable-looking  man,  was  forced  into  the 
centre  of  the  plaza,  whence  he  could  have  a  full  view  of 
the  horrid  scene  about  to  be  enacted. 

But  the  indignities  to  which  he  had  been  subjected 
aroused  a  latent  spark  of  fire  even  in  the  soul  of  the  aged 
Hebrew.  He  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried  aloud  :  — 

"  Spaniards !  Christians !  are  ye  men,  or  are  ye  brutes  ? 
Fear  ye  not  the  vengeance  of  Heaven,  when  ye  enact  deeds 


THE    DIAMOND    STAR.  361 

that  would  make  the  savage  blush  ?     Think  ye  that  Heaven 
will  long  withhold  its  vengeance  from  atrocities  that  cry 
aloud  to  it  night  and  day  —  that  the  innocent  blood  ye  have 
spilt  will  sink,  unavenged,  into  the  earth  ?     Fear  and  trem 
ble,  for  the  hour  of  wrath  and  woe  is  at  hand ! " 

The  energy  and  eloquence  with  which  he  spoke  sent  a 
strange  thrill  of  terror  through  the  crowd.  The  governor 
alone  insensible  to  fear,  shouted  from  his  saddle  :  — 

"  Tremble  for  yourself,  Isaac  !  for,  by  the  rood !  if  you  dare 
question  the  justice  of  the  Holy  Office,  you  shall  share  the 
fate  of  yonder  prisoner." 

"  I  fear  not  the  wrath  of  man,"  replied  the  Jew  ;  "  fear 
you  the  wrath  of  Heaven  !  " 

And  at  this  moment,  as  if  in  vindication  of  his  words,  a 
heavy  clap  of  thunder,  that  shook  the  city  like  the  dis 
charge  of  a  park  of  artillery,  broke  upon  the  ear ;  and  one 
of  those  sudden  storms,  so  common  in  southerly  latitudes, 
rolled  up  its  dark  masses  of  clouds,  and  the  light  of  day  was 
suddenly  quenched,  as  in  an  eclipse.  Vivid  flashes  of  light 
ning  lit  the  upturned  and  terror-stricken  faces  of  the  cower 
ing  multitude.  At  the  same  time,  the  wind  howled  fiercely 
through  the  streets  that  debouched  upon  the  plaza,  and  toro 
the  plumage  that  waved  and  tossed  upon  the  helmets  of  the 
soldiery. 

"Executioner!"  roared  the  governor,  whose  high,  stern 
tones  of  military  command  were  heard  above  the  roar  of  the 
sudden  tornado,  "  do  your  duty !  Set  fire  to  the  fagots ! " 

The  order  was  obeyed ;  the  torch  was  applied,  and  already 
a  quivering,  lurid  flame  shot  up  at  the  feet  of  the  luckless 
Landon,  when  the  storm  burst  forth  with  ungovernable  fury. 
The  scaffolding  was  blown  down,  the  fragments  scattered, 
and  the  rain,  descending  in  torrents,  instantly  quenched 
both  torch  and  fagot.  The  vast  crowc}  was  thrown  into 
31 


862  THE    DIAMOND    STAR. 

utter  confusion ;  the  terrified  horses  of  the  cavalry  plunged 
madly  among  the  footmen ;  hundreds  fell  and  were  trampled 
under  foot ;  and  prayers,  shrieks,  and  imprecations  filled  the 
darkened  air. 

Landon  was  unhurt  amid  the  wreck  of  the  sacrificial  pyre. 
A  ray  of  hope  shot  up  in  his  heart.  Scrambling  out  of  the 
ruins,  unobserved  and  unpursued,  he  fled  down  the  nearest 
lane  with  the  utmost  speed.  Anxious  to  obtain  shelter,  he, 
without  even  a  thought,  climbed  a  garden  wall ;  once  within 
which  he  was  safe,  for  a  moment,  from  pursuit.  Rushing 
through  a  shaded  alley  of  the  garden,  he  found  himself  at 
the  door  of  a  large  and  splendid  house.  Almost  without  a 
hope  of  finding  it  yield,  he  tried  the  handle,  and  the  door 
opened.  Silently  and  swiftly  he  ascended  a  large,  stone 
staircase,  and  took  refuge  in  the  first  apartment  which  he 
found  before  him.  A  beautiful  young  girl,  the  only  occu 
pant  of  the  room,  starting  at  the  fearful  apparition  of  a 
stranger  flying  for  his  life,  in  the  robe  of  the  san  benito,  fell 
upon  her  knees  and  crossed  herself  repeatedly,  as  her  dark 
eyes  were  fixed  in  terror  on  the  intruder. 

"  Lady ! "  cried  Landon,  "  for  the  love  of  that  Being  whom 
we  both  worship,  though  in  a  different  form,  take  pity  on  a 
wretched  fellow-being.  Save  me !  save  me  ! " 

"  You  are  accursed  and  condemned,"  she  answered,  rising 
and  recoiling. 

"  I  am !  I  am  !  —  but  you  know  my  offence.  If  you  ever 
loved  yourself,  you  know  how  to  pardon  it.  Think  of  the 
horrid  fate  which  awaits  me,  if  you  are  pitiless." 

The  lady  paused  and  reflected,  Landon  watching  the  ex 
pression  of  her  countenance  with  the  most  intense  anxiety. 
At  length  her  brow  cleared  up  ;  there  was  an  expression  of 
sweetness  about  her  rosy  lips  that  revived  hope  in  the  heart 
of  the  fugitive. 


THE   DIAMOND    STAR.  363 

"I  will  save  you  if  I  can,"  she  answered. 

a  Heaven's  best  blessing  on  you  for  the  word ! "  exclaimed 
the  Englishman. 

"  But  you  have  come  to  a  dangerous  place  for  shelter 
and  safety,"  she  continued,  sadly.  "  Do  you  know  whose 
house  this  is  ?  It  is  the  dwelling  of  my  father,  Don  Rod- 
rigo  d' Almonte,  the  governor  of  Valencia." 

Landon  started  back  in  terror,  but  he  instantly  recovered 
from  that  feeling. 

"  You,  then,"  he  said,  "  are  Donna  Florinda,  in  praise 
of  whose  beauty  and  goodness  all  Valencia  is  eloquent.  I 
feel  that  I  am  safe  in  your  hands." 

"I  will  never  betray  you,"  said  the  lady.  "You  are 
safe  here.  It  is  my  bed  chamber,"  she  continued,  blush 
ing  ;  "  but  I  resign  it  to  you  —  sure,  from  your  countenance, 
that  you  are  a  cavalier  of  honor,  who  will  never  give  me 
cause  to  repent  of  the  step." 

"  Be  sure  of  that." 

"  Swear  it,"  she  said,  "  upon  this  trinket,  which  my  fa 
ther  took  from  your  person  in  the  hall  of  the  Inquisition." 

Landon  took  from  Florinda's  hand  the  diamond  star 
given  him  by  Estella,  and  thus  mysteriously  restored,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

.  "By  this  talisman,"  he  said,  "by  this  token,  which  I 
prize  so  highly,  I  pledge  myself  not  to  abuse  your  confi 
dence,  but  to  repay  the  priceless  service  you  render  me  by 
a  life  of  gratitude." 

"  You  may  remain  here,  then,  for  the  present,"  said  Flo 
rinda,  "till  I  can  think  what  can  be  done  for  you." 

"  If  I  can  only  make  my  way  to  the  house  of  the  Eng 
lish  ambassador,"  replied  Landon,  "  I  think  I  can  count 
upon  my  safety." 

Donna  Florinda,  after  lighting  a  lamp,  (for  it  was  now 


364  THE   DIAMOND    STAR. 

nightfall,)  and  setting  upon  a  table  some  wine  and  fruit,  left 
tlie  chamber,  locking  the  door  behind  her. 

Descending  to  the  garden,  she  went  directly  to  a  secluded 
arbor,  embowered  in  foliage,  at  no  great  distance  from  the 
house. 

"  Cesareo  ! "  she  whispered. 

A  young  cavalier,  who  was  concealed  in  the  arbor,  in 
stantly  advanced,  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Dear  Florinda,"  he  cried,  "  I  feared  that  you  would 
disappoint  me.  But  we  have  yet  some  happy  momenta  to 
pass  together." 

"  Not  a  moment,  Cesareo,"  replied  the  lady ;  "  my  father 
will  soon  return.  I  come  to  beg  you  to  retire  instantly,  and 
await  another  opportunity  of  meeting." 

"  You  are  anxious  to  get  rid  of  me ! "  replied  the  cav 
alier. 

"  Not  so  ;  my  father  will  soon  return,  and  he  will  be  sure 
to  inquire  for  me  directly." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  lover,  "  if  it  must  be  so,  go  you 
to  the  house,  and  leave  me  the  solitary  pleasure  of  watch 
ing  the  window  of  the  room  gladdened  by  your  pres 
ence." 

"  No,  no,  Cesareo,"  cried  Florinda,  in  terror,  "  that  must 
not  be." 

As  she  said  this,  her  eyes  were  instinctively  turned  to  the 
window  of  her  room,  and  Cesareo's  followed  the  same  di 
rection.  The  shadow  of  Landon's  figure,  as  it  passed  be 
tween  the  lamp  and  the  window,  was  seen  defined  distinctly 
on  the  curtain. 

"  By  Heaven  ! "  cried  Cesareo,  "  there  is  a  man  in  youi 
bed  chamber ! " 

"My  father!"  said  Florinda. 

"  You  told  me  in  your  last  breath  that  he  had  not  re 


THE    DIAMOND    STAR.  365 

turned.     You  are  playing  me  false,  Florinda.     You  have  a 
lover,  and  a  favored  one." 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  the  agonized  girl.  "  It  is  nothing,  bo 
lieve  me  —  trust  not  appearances.  I  will  explain  all." 

But  at  this  moment  the  distant  clang  of  trumpets  and 
kettledrums  was  heard,  announcing  the  governor's  return. 

"  I  must  begone  ! "  cried  Florinda ;  "  believe  me,  I  am 
faithful ; "  and  with  these  words  she  fled  into  the  house. 

"  The  dream  is  over ! "  said  Cesareo.  "  But  I  will  have 
vengeance  on  my  rival ; "  and  he  left  the  garden,  muttering 
curses,  and  grasping  the  cross  hilt  of  his  sword. 

Florinda  flew  to  her  chamber. 

"  Fly ! "  she  cried  to  Landon.  "  I  have  sheltered  you  at 
the  risk  of  my  reputation  —  my  father  is  returning,  and 
you  must  leave  this  house.  A  jealous  lover  may  denounce 
me,  and  both  of  us  be  ruined  forever.  Farewell ;  climb 
the  wall  at  the  back  of  the  garden,  and  take  refuge  in  the 
next  house.  I  will  still  watch  over  you." 

Landon  obeyed,  and  made  his  escape  from  the  governor's 
garden  just  as  Don  Rodrigo  was  entering  his  court  yard. 
He  crossed  another  small  garden,  and  entered  a  small  house 
at  the  extremity,  the  door  of  which  was  unbarred,  and  again 
found  refuge  in  a  room  on  the  first  floor,  where  he  concealed 
himself  behind  a  screen. 

He  had  not  been  here  long  before  he  heard  footsteps  en 
tering  the  room,  and  the  voices  of  two  persons  in  conver 
sation,  one  of  whom  was  evidently  a  female,  and  the  other 
an  old  man. 

"  Dear  father ! "  said  the  female,  "  I  am  rejoiced  to  see 
that  you  are  returned.  You  never  go  forth  in  this  city  that 
you  do  not  leave  me  trembling  for  your  safety." 

"  I  have  passed  through  much  peril,  Miriam,"   replied 
the  man.     "  Snares  and  violence  have  beset  my  path.     I 
31* 


866  THE    DIAMOND    STAR. 

went  to  carry  the  gold  and  the  silver  I  had  promised  to  Ja 
cob,  the  goldsmith,  when,  lo !  I  was  beset  by  the  ungodly 
rabble." 

"  Dear  father  !  " 

"  Yea !  and  they  dragged  me  to  their  place  of  skulls  — 
even  to  their  accursed  Golgotha,  where  the  blood  of  mine 
only  brother  was  drunken  by  the  ravening  flames,  and 
where  thirty  of  our  brethren  perished  because  they  be 
lieved  in  the  God  of  Abraham,  and  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob." 

"  And  did  they  force  you  to  witness  the  auto  da  fe  ?  " 

"  They  brought  me  to  the  place,  Miriam  —  but  there  the 
spirit  of  prophecy  descended  upon  me,  and  I  lifted  up  my 
voice  and  denounced  their  abominations,  even  as  the  proph 
et  of  old  did  the  iniquities  of  the  Egyptian  king.  And  lo ! 
Miriam,  there  was  a  miracle  wrought.  The  voice  of  Heav 
en  spake  in  thunder  to  rebuke  their  impious  bloodthirsti- 
ness.  The  floodgates  of  heaven  were  opened,  and  the  rain 
descended  in  mighty  torrents,  and  quenched  the  Moloch 
fires  kindled  by  the  Christians.  And  a  great  wind  arose, 
and  the  scaffold  was  destroyed,  and  the  goodly  youth  that 
stood  thereupon  was  saved  from  the  death  of  fire  as  the 
multitude  were  scattered." 

"  And  lives  he,  father  ?  " 

"  I  fear  not,"  answered  the  old  man,  sadly.  "  For  if  he 
were  not  crushed  by  the  falling  scaffold,  yet  verily  the  cruel 
swords  of  the  troopers  and  the  men-at-arms  must  have 
sought  out  his  young  life." 

At  this  moment,  L  an  don  stepped  from  his  concealment. 

"  No,  my  friends,"  said  he,  "  I  yet  live  to  thank  Heaven 
for  its  providential  care.  I  have  even  found  a  friend  in  the 
household  of  my  bitter  enemy,  for  Donna  Florinda  d' Al 
monte  sheltered  me,  and  commended  me  to  your  roof." 

He  now  had  time  to  scan  the  persons  of  his  hosts.     Th« 


THE    DIAMOND    STAR.  367 

elder,  Isaac,  the  Jew,  was,  as  we  described  him  on  his  ap* 
pearance  in  the  plaza,  a  man  of  venerable  appearance,  with 
a  mild  and  noble  countenance,  wearing  the  long  beard  and 
flowing  robes  of  his  race.  His  daughter,  Miriam,  had  the 
commanding  beauty,  the  dark  eyes,  the  flowing  hair,  and 
the  bold  features  of  the  daughters  of  Israel.  She  was 
richly  clad  in  robes  of  silk,  and  many  a  jewel  of  price 
gleamed  in  the  raven  tresses  of  her  hair. 

"Thou  art  safe  beneath  this  roof,"  said  the  Hebrew, 
"  for  Donna  Florinda,  though  the  daughter  of  the  man  of 
tiger  blood,  hath  yet  befriended  us  and  ours,  and  for  her 
sake  as  well  as  for  thine,  thou  art  welcome." 

Landon  thanked  his  new  friends  for  their  hospitable 
pledges. 

"  I  would  fain,"  said  the  old  Hebrew,  "  give  thee  gar 
ments  more  fitting  than  the  accursed  robe  that  wraps  thy 
youthful  limbs.  But  of  a  truth  I  have  none  of  Spanish 
fashion,  and  the  Jewish  gabardine  is  almost  as  fatal  to  the 
wearer  as  the  robe  of  the  san  benito." 

"  Here  comes  Reuben,"  said  Miriam.  "  Welcome  home, 
dear  brother." 

A  handsome  youth  of  sixteen  entered  at  this  moment, 
and  saluted  his  father,  his  sister,  and  the  stranger.  He 
bore  a  bundle  in  his  arms. 

"  I  was  charged,"  he  said,  "  by  the  lady  Florinda,  to 
bear  this  packet  to  the  stranger  I  should  find  here.  It  con 
tains  a  Spanish  dress.  She  bid  me  say,"  he  continued, 
addressing  Landon,  "  that  when  you  have  put  on  these 
habiliments,  you  can  repair  with  me  to  the  governor's  gar 
den  at  midnight.  The  waiting  maid  and  confidant  will 
conduct  you  through  the  house  to  the  street,  and  once  there 
you  can  make  your  way  to  the  English  ambassador's. 

After   thanking  the   youthful   messenger,   Landon  wa* 


*>DO  THE   DIAMOND    STAR. 

Bhowr.  to  an  apartment,  where  he  was  left  alone  to  change 
his  dress.  Donna  Florinda  had  supplied  him  with  a  plain 
but  handsome  cavalier's  suit,  including  mantle,  hat,  and 
plume,  and  in  addition  to  these,  a  good  sword.  Landop 
hailed  this  latter  gift  with  joy,  and  buckled  the  belt  with 
trembling  eagerness.  He  drew  the  weapon,  and  found  it  to 
be  a  Toledo  blade  of  the  best  temper.  He  kissed  the 
sword  with  ecstasy. 

"  Welcome  !  "  he  cried,  "  old  friend  !  "With  you  I  can 
cut  through  odds,  and  at  least  sell  my  life  dearly,  if  I  fall 
again  into  the  hands  of  the  Philistines." 

Returning  to  his  new  friends,  he  sat  down  to  a  hearty 
meal  which  they  had  prepared  for  him,  and  to  which  he 
did  an  Englishman's  justice.  At  the  hour  of  twelve,  his 
young  friend  Reuben  signified  his  readiness  to  accompany 
him  on  his  adventure. 

"  Farewell ! "  he  cried ;  "  I  owe  you  a  debt  that  nothing 
can  repay.  But  believe  me  that  your  kindness  will  always 
dwell  in  the  heart  of  Clarence  Landon." 

Reuben  and  the  Englishman  were  soon  in  the  governor's 
garden.  It  was  pitch  dark,  and  they  advanced  cautiously, 
groping  their  way.  All  at  once  Landon  stumbled  against 
some  person. 

"  Is  it  you,  Reuben  ?  "  said  he,  in  a  low  tone. 

But  he  was  instantly  grasped  by  the  throat.  Dealing  his 
unknown  assailant  a  blow  with  his  clinched  hand,  which 
made  him  release  his  hold,  the  Englishman  instantly  drew 
his  sword  and  threw  himself  on  guard.  His  steel  was 
crossed  by  another  blade,  and  a  fierce  encounter  ensued, 
the  combatants  being  practised  swordsmen,  and  guided, 
in  the  dark,  by  what  swordsmen  term  the  "  perception  of 
the  blade."  Reuben  had  made  his  escape,  and  gone  to  in 
form  his  father  of  this  new  disaster.  The  struggle  was 


THE    DIAMOND    STAR.  369 

brief,  for  the  antagonist  of  Landon,  closing  at  the  peril  of 
his  life,  and  being  a  man  of  herculean  strength,  wrested  the 
sword  from  the  Englishman's  grasp,  and  held  him  at  hia 
mercy. 

"  Now,  dog !  "  whispered  the  victor,  "  have  you  any  thing 
to  offer  why  I  should  not  take  your  life  as  a  minion  of  the 
tyrant  Rodrigo  ?  " 

"  I  scorn  to  ask  my  life  of  an  unknown  assassin,"  replied 
Landon ;  "  but  I  am  no  minion  of  Rodrigo's,  and  I  was 
even  now  seeking  to  escape  his  clutches." 

"  If  there  was  light  here,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I  could 
see  whether  you  lied,  friend,  by  your  looks.  You  may  be 
palming  off  a  tale  upon  me.  How  did  you  propose  to  escape 
Rodrigo  ?  " 

"  By  making  my  way  through  his  house,"  answered 
Landon. 

"A  likely  tale.  How  are  you  to  gain  access  to  his 
house  ?" 

"  A  waiting  maid  was  to  let  me  in." 

"  Well,  I'll  test  your  veracity.  I  have  your  life  in  my 
hands.  You  are  unarmed ;  I  have  rapier  and  dagger. 
The  experiment  costs  me  nothing." 

"  It  would  be  idle  in  me  to  interrogate  you,"  said  Landon ; 
« it  would  be  idle  to  ask  who  you  are." 

"  I  will  answer  you  frankly,"  replied  the  stranger ;  "  I 
am  one  of  those  freebooters  whose  fortunes  are  their  swords. 
If  I  were  in  Rodrigo's  power,  my  life  would  not  be  worth 
five  minutes'  purchase  ;  and  yet  I  am  seeking  him  to-night." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles." 

a  Perhaps  ;  but  be  silent  now,  if  you  value  your  life,  and 
follow  me." 

The  stranger,  still  retaining  a  firm  grasp  upon  the  luck 
less  Landon,  approached  a  door  which  led  into  the  governor's 


370  THE    DIAMOND    STAlt. 

house,  showing,  in  their  progress,  a  perfect  acquaintance 
with  the  labyrinthian  alleys  of  the  garden.  They  halted^ 
and  a  female  voice  spoke  in  a  whisper,  saying,  "  Here's 
the  key." 

The  stranger  grasped  it,  and  dragging  Landon  into  the 
house,  instantly  locked  the  door  behind  him.  A  dark  lan 
tern  was  placed  on  the  floor  of  the  corridor ;  the  stranger 
told  Landon  to  take  this  up,  and  precede  him  up  stairs. 
Landon  obeyed,  the  stranger  following  close  behind,  and 
giving  him  whispered  directions  as  to  his  course. 

Having  reached  a  certain  door,  the  stranger  took  the  light 
and  entered  a  chamber,  followed  by  the  wondering  English 
man.  The  walls  of  the  room  were  heavily  draped,  and  upon 
a  huge  bed  the  governor  of  Valencia  was  reclining,  buried 
m  a  deep  slumber. 

"  He  sleeps  ! "  whispered  the  stranger  in  the  ear  of  Lan 
don  ;  "  he  sleeps,  as  if  he  had  never  shed  blood  —  as  if  the 
head  of  my  brother  had  never  fallen  on  the  block  by  the 
hand  of  his  bloody  executioner.  He  will  soon  sleep  sounder." 

"  "What  mean  you  ?  "  asked  Landon. 

"  Wait  and  see,"  was  the  reply. 

The  stranger  cautiously  lifted  the  light  in  his  left  hand, 
bending  over  the  sleeper,  while  with  his  right  he  drew  a 
broad,  sharp  poniard  from  his  belt,  and  raised  it  in  the  act 
to  strike.  But  just  as  it  was  descending,  Landon  caught 
the  assassin's  arm,  and  shouted  in  his  loudest  tones,  — 

"  Don  Rodrigo,  wake ! " 

"  Baffled ! "  cried  the  ruffian,  with  an  oath.  "  You  shall 
pay  with  your  life  for  interfering." 

The  governor  sprang  from  his  bed  in  time  to  witness  the 
deadly  struggle  between  Landon  and  the  midnight  assassin. 
It  was  short  and  decisive,  for  as  the  robber  was  aiming  a 
blow  at  his  antagonist,  the  latter  changed  the  direction,  and 


THE    DIAMOND    STAR.  371 

it  was  buried  to  the  hilt  in  his  own  heart.  He  fell,  and  died 
without  a  groan.  The  noise  of  the  struggle  had  aroused 
the  household,  and  the  servants  came  pouring  into  the  room 
with  lights,  accompanied  by  Donna  Florinda,  who  was  ago 
nized  with  terror. 

"  Dear  father !  "  she  cried,  rushing  into  the  governor's 
arms,  "  what  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means,"  replied  Don  Rodrigo,  "that  this  ruffian,  who 
had  sworn  to  take  my  life  because  I  had  condemned  his 
brother  to  death  for  manifold  misdeeds,  has  been  slain  in 
the  attempt  by  this  young  man." 

"And  do   you  recognize   your   generous   savior?"  ex 
claimed  the  daughter.     *  Behold  !  it  is  the  young  English 
man  you  condemned  to  perish  at  the  stake.     O  father ! " 
And  she  explained  the  manner  in  which  Landon  had  been 
enabled  to  save  the  governor's  life. 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  governor,  addressing  Landon  with 
deep  emotion,  "  a  mightier  Power  than  the  hand  of  man  is 
visible  in  this.  For  the  life  you  have  saved  I  will  repay 
you  in  the  same  manner.  I  insure  you  a  full  and  free 
pardon,  and  you  shall  not  have  it  to  say  that  Don  Rodrigo 
d' Almonte,  bad  as  he  has  been  represented,  was  a  monster 
of  ingratitude." 

And  he  kept  his  word.  Landon  soon  after  set  sail  for 
England,  in  company  with  the  Hebrew  family  who  had 
sheltered  him,  and  there,  in  due  time,  was  united  to  the 
lovely  Miriam,  with  whose  beauty  he  had  been  impressed 
on  first  sight.  In  England,  he  rejoined  Hamilton  and  his 
Spanish  bride,  to  secure  whose  happiness  he  had  perilled 
his  own  life ;  and  he  always  preserved  Estella's  diamond 
star  as  a  memorial  of  his  adventures  in  Valencia.  Soon 
after  his  arrival  he  received  a  letter  from  Donna  Florinda, 
announcing  her  marriage  to  Cesareo,  whose  jealousy  had 


372  THE    DIAMOND    STAR. 

been  so  signally  excited  by  Landon's  shadow  on  the  window 
curtain.  When  Don  Rodrigo  died,  he  was  buried  with  all 
the  honors  due  to  a  soldier,  a  governor,  and  an  eminent 
member  of  that  mild  and  benevolent  institution*  the  Spanish 
Inquisition. 


THE   GAME   OF   CHANCE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

AT  nightfall,  on  an  autumnal  evening,  when  the  stars 
were  just  beginning  to  twinkle  overhead  like  diamonds  on 
a  canopy  of  azure,  two  young  men  were  standing  together, 
engaged  in  conversation  on  the  steps  of  the  Black  Eagle,  a 
fashionable  hotel  in  one  of  the  principal  streets  of  the  gay 
and  celebrated  city  of  Vienna.  One  of  them  wore  the 
.rich  uniform  of  an  Austrian  hussar  ;  the  other  was  clad  in 
the  civic  costume  of  a  gentleman. 

"  So,  all  is  completed  at  the  ministry  of  war,  except  the 
signature  of  the  commission,  and  the  payment  of  the  pur 
chase  money  ?  "  said  the  soldier. 

"  Exactly  so." 

"  And  to-morrow,  then,"  continued  the  hussar,  "  I  am  to 
congratulate  you  on  the  command  of  a  company,  and  sa 
lute  you  as  Captain  Ernest  Walstein." 

The  last  speaker  was  Captain  Christian  Steinfort,  an 
officer  who  had  seen  some  two  years'  service. 

"  Ah !  my  boy ! "  continued  he,  twirling  his  jet  black 
mustache,  "  your  uniform  will  be  a  passport  to  the  smiles 
of  the  fair.  But  you  already  seem  to  have  made  your 
way  to  the  good  graces  of  Madame  Von  Berlingen,  the 
rich  widow  who  resides  at  this  hotel." 

32  Y  373 


874  THE    GAME    OF    CHANCE. 

"  Bah !  she  is  forty,"  answered  Ernest,  carelessly. 

"  But  in  fine  preservation,  and  a  beauty  for  all  that," 
said  Captain  Steinfort.  "  The  Baron  Von  Dangerfeld  wag 
desperately  in  love  with  her ;  but  within  a  few  days,  the 
widow  seems  rather  to  have  cut  him.  You  are  the  happy 
roan,  after  all." 

"  Undeceive  yourself,  my  dear  Christian,"  said  Ernest, 
blushing ;  "  I  have  only  flirted  with  the  handsome  widow. 
My  hand  is  already  engaged  to  a  charming  girl,  Meena 
Altenburg,  the  playmate  of  my  infancy,  adopted  and 
brought  up  by  my  good  father.  I  am  to  marry  her  as  soon 
as  I  get  my  company." 

"  And  what  is  to  support  you,  Captain  Ernest  ?  " 

"  My  pay,  of  course,  and  the  income  of  the  moderate 
dowry  my  father,  who  is  well  enough  off  for  a  farmer,  pro 
poses  to  give  his  favorite.  So,  you  see  my  lot  in  life  is 
settled." 

"  Precisely  so,"  replied  the  captain.  "  But  since  you 
are  free  this  evening,  I  engage  you  to  pass  it  with  me. 
Have  you  got  any  money  about  you  ?  " 

"A  good  deal.  Besides  the  price  of  my  company, 
which  is  safely  stowed  away  in  bank  notes  in  this  breast 
pocket,  I  have  a  handful  of  ducats  about  me,  with  which  I 
propose  purchasing  some  trinkets  for  my  bride.  But  I 
have  a  gold  piece  or  two  that  I  can  spare,  if " 

"  Poh !  poh !  I'm  well  enough  provided,"  answered 
the  captain.  "  You  know  this  is  pay  day.  Come  along." 

"  But  whither  ?  " 

"  You  shall  see." 

With  these  words,  the  captain  thrust  his  arm  within  that 
of  his  companion,  and  the  pair  walked  off  at  a  rapid  rate. 
After  passing  through  several  streets,  Steinfort  halted,  and 
rang  at  the  door  of  a  stately  mansion.  It  ^as  opened  by 


THE    GAME    OF    CHANCE.  375 

a  servant  in  handsome  livery,  and  the  young  gentlemen 
entered  and  went  up  stairs. 

Walstein  soon  found  himself  in  a  scene  very  different 
from  any  of  which  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  in  his  rustic  and 
simple  life  upon  his  father's  farm.  Around  a  large  table, 
covered  with  cloth,  were  seated  more  than  a  dozen  persons 
of  different  ages,  all  so  intent  upon  what  was  going  for 
ward,  that  the  captain  and  his  friend  took  their  seats  unno 
ticed.  At  the  head  of  the  table  sat  a  man  in  a  gray  wig, 
with  a  pair  of  green  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  before  whom 
lay  a  pile  of  gold,  and  who  was  busily  engaged  in  paying 
and  receiving  money,  and  in  giving  an  impetus  to  a  small 
ivory  ball,  which  spun  at  intervals  its  appointed  course. 
Walstein  soon  learned  that  this  was  a  rouge-et-noir  table. 
The  gentleman  in  the  gray  wig  was  the  banker. 

"Make  your  game,  gentlemen,"  said  this  individual, 
"  while  the  ball  spins.  Your  luck's  as  good  as  mine.  It's 
all  luck,  gentlemen,  at  rouge-et-noir.  Rouge-et-noir,  gen 
tlemen,  the  finest  in  all  the  world.  Black  wins  ;  it's  yours, 
sir  —  twenty  ducats,  and  you've  doubled  it.  Make  your 
game  —  black  or  red." 

"  Try  your  fortune,  Ernest,"  said  the  captain.  Ernest 
mechanically  put  down  a  few  ducats  on  the  red. 

"  Red  wins,"  said  the  banker,  in  the  same  monotonous 
tone.  "  Make  your  game,  gentlemen,  while  the  ball  rolls." 

Why  need  we  follow  the  fortunes  of  Ernest  on  this 
fatal  evening,  as  he  yielded,  step  by  step,  to  the  seduction 
to  which  he  was  now  exposed  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  ? 
Long  after  Steinfort  left  the  gambling  house,  he  continued 
to  play.  His  luck  turned.  He  had  soon  lost  all  his  win 
nings,  and  the  money  set  apart  for  his  bridal  presents. 
Still  the  ball  rolled,  and  he  continued  to  stake.  He  had 
broken  the  package  of  bank  notes,  the  money  he  had  re- 


876  THE    GAME    OF    CHANCE. 

ceived  from  his  father  for  the  purchase  of  his  commission 
and  though  he  ?aw  bill  after  bill  swept  away  before  his 
eyes,  he  continued  to  play,  in  the  desperate  hope  of  win 
ning  back  his  losses.  At  length  his  last  ducat  was  gone. 
He  rose  and  left  the  room,  the  last  words  ringing  in  his 
ears  being,  — 

"  Make  your  game,  gentlemen,  while  the  ball  rolls." 

Despairing  and  heart-stricken,  the  young  man  sought  his 
hotel  and  his  chamber.  On  the  staircase  he  encountered 
Madame  Von  Berlingen,  but  he  saw  her  not.  His  eyes 
were  glazed.  He  did  not  notice  or  return  her  salutation.' 
He  threw  himself  upon  his  bed  without  undressing,  and 
towards  morning  fell  into  an  unrefreshing  and  dream- 
peopled  slumber. 

When  he  arose,  late  the  next  day,  he  looked  at  himself 
in  the  glass,  but  scarcely  recognized  his  own  face,  so 
changed  was  he  by  the  mental  agonies  he  had  undergone. 
When  he  had  paid  some  little  attention  to  his  toilet,  he 
received  a  message  from  Madame  Von  Berlingen,  request 
ing  the  favor  of  an  interview  in  her  apartments.  He 
mechanically  obeyed  the  summons,  though  ill  fitted  to  sus 
tain  a  conversation  with  a  lady. 

The  widow  requested  him  to  be  seated. 

"  Mr.  Walstein,"  said  she,  with  a  smile,  "  you  are  grow 
ing  very  ungallant.  I  met  you  last  night  upon  the  stair 
case  ;  but  though  I  spoke  to  you,  you  had  not  a  word  or  a 
nod  for  me." 

"  Last  night,  madam,"  answered  the  unfortunate  young 
man,  "  I  was  beside  myself.  O  madam,  if  you  knew  all !  " 

"  I  do  know  all,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  What !  that  I  had  been  gambling — that  I  had  thrown 
away  —  yes,  those  are  the  words  —  every  ducat  of  the 


THE    GAME    OF    CHANCE.  377 

money  my  poor  father  furnished  me  with  to  purchase  my 
commission  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  knoV  all  that.     But  the  loss  is  not  irreparable." 

"  Pardon  me,  madam.  My  father,  though  reputed 
wealthy,  is  unable  to  furnish  me  with  a  similar  sum,  even 
if  I  were  base  enough  to  accept  it  at  his  hands." 

"  But  if  some  friend  were  to  step  forward." 

"  Alas  !  I  know  none." 

"  Mr.  Walstein,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  am  rich.  A  loan  of 
the  requisite  amount  would  not  affect  me  in  the  least." 

"  O  madam ! "  cried  the  young  man,  "  if  you  would 
indeed  save  me  by  such  generosity,  you  would  be  an  angel 
of  mercy." 

"  What  is  the  amount  of  your  loss  ?  "  inquired  the  lady, 
calmly,  as  she  unlocked  her  desk. 

"Three  thousand  ducats,"  answered  Ernest.  "But  I 
can  give  you  no  security  for  the  payment." 

"  Your  note  of  hand  is  sufficient,"  said  the  lady,  handing 
the  young  man  a  package  of  notes.  "  Please  to  count 
those,  and  see  if  the  sum  is  correct.  Here  are  writing 
materials." 

Ernest  did  as  he  was  bid  —  counted  the  money,  and  then 
sat  down  at  the  desk. 

"  Write  at  my  dictation,"  said  the  lady. 

Ernest  took  up  a  pen  and  commenced. 

«  The  date,"  said  the  lady. 

Ernest  wrote  it. 

"  Received  of  Anna  Von  Berlingen  the  sum  of  three 
thousand  ducats." 

Ernest  wrote  and  repeated,  "  three  thousand  ducats." 

"  In  consideration  whereof,  I  promise  to  marry  the  afore 
said  Anna  Von  Berlingen." 

"  To  marry  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Ernest. 
32* 


378  THE    GAME    OF    CHANCE. 

"  A} to  marry  me  !  "  said  the  lady.  "  Am  I  deformed 

—  am  1  ugly  —  am  I  poor  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  do  it  —  you  know  not  the  reason  that  induces 
me  to  refuse." 

"  Then  go  home  to  your  father  and  confess  your  guilt." 

Ernest  reflected  a  few  moments.  He  could  not  go  home 
to  his  father  with  the  frightful  tale.  It  was  a  question 
between  suicide  and  marriage  —  he  signed  the  paper. 

"Now  then,  baron,"  said  the  widow  to  herself,  as  she 
carefully  secured  the  promise,  "  you  cannot  say  that  you 
broke  the  heart  of  Anna  by  your  cruelty.  Take  the  money, 
Ernest,"  she  added  aloud ;  "  go  and  purchase  your  commis 
sion." 

Ernest  obeyed.  His  dreams  of  yesterday  morning  had 
all  been  dissipated  by  his  own  act ;  he  felt  a  degraded  and 
broken-spirited  criminal.  He  had  sold  himself  for  gold. 


CHAPTER  n. 

"  HERE  comes  Captain  Ernest! "  cried  a  youthful  voice. 
And  a  beautiful,  blue-eyed  girl  of  nineteen  stood  at  the 
garden  gate  of  a  pretty  farm  house,  watching  the  approach 
of  a  horseman,  who,  gayly  attired  in  a  hussar  uniform,  was 
galloping  up  the  road.  At  her  shout  of  delight,  a  sturdy 
old  gray-haired  man  came  forth  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Captain  Ernest ! "  he  repeated.  "  That  sounds  well. 
When  I  was  of  his  age,  I  only  carried  a  musket  in  the 
ranks.  I  never  dreamed  then  that  a  son  of  mine  could 
ever  aspire  to  the  epaulet." 

Ernest,  waving  his  hand  to  Meena  Altenburg  and  his 
father,  rode  past  them  to  the  stable,  where  he  left  his 


THE    GAME    OF    CHANCE.  379 

horse.  He  th^n  rushed  into  the  farm  house  where  his 
father  met  him. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  boy  ?  "  he  said.  "  How 
wild  and  haggard  you  look!  And  you  have  avoided 
Meena  —  and  this,  too,  upon  your  wedding  day." 

"  My  wedding  day  —  O  Heavens  !  I  shall  die,"  said  the 
young  man,  sinking  into  a  seat. 

As  soon  as  he  could  collect  himself,  he  told  his  father 
that  he  could  not  marry  Meena,  and  the  reason  —  he  had 
pledged  himself  to  another.  The  old  man,  who  was  the  soul 
of  honor,  burst  forth  in  violent  imprecations,  and  drove  him 
from  his  presence.  As  he  left  the  house,  the  unfortunate 
young  man  encountered  a  person  whom  he  at  once  recog 
nized  as  the  Baron  Von  Dangerfeld,  the  reputed  suitor  of 
Madame  Von  Berlingen. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you,  Captain  Walstein,"  said 
the  baron,  sternly. 

u  And  you  have  found  me,"  answered  the  young  man, 
shortly. 

«  Yes  —  and  I  thank  Heaven  you  wear  that  uniform.  It 
entitles  you  to  meet  a  German  noble,  and  answer  for  your 
conduct." 

"  I  am  answerable  for  my  conduct  to  no  living  man," 
retorted  Ernest. 

"  You  wear  a  sword." 

«  Yes." 

"  Very  well  —  if  you  refuse  to  give  satisfaction  for  the 
injury  you  have  done  me,  in  robbing  me  of  my  mistress,  I 
will  proclaim  you  a  coward  in  the  presence  of  the  regi 
ment  upon  parade." 

"  (),  make  yourself  easy  on  that  score,  baron,"  answered 
Ernest.  "  Life  is  of  too  little  worth  for  me  to  think  of 


380  THE    GAME    OF    CHANCE. 

shielding  it.  If  you  will  step  with  me  into  the  shadow  of 
yonder  grove,  we  can  soon  regulate  our  accounts." 

The  two  men  walked  silently  to  the  appointed  spot,  and 
without  any  preliminary,  drew  their  swords  and  engaged  in 
combat.  The  struggle  was  not  of  long  duration,  for  Ernest 
wounded  his  adversary  in  the  sword  arm,  and  disarmed 
him. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  must  be  so  for  the  present,"  replied  the  baron,  sullen 
ly.  "  When  I  recover,  you  shall  hear  from  me  again." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Ernest,  coldly.  "  In  the  mean 
time,  suffer  me  to  bind  up  your  arm." 

The  young  man  bandaged  the  wound  of  his  adversary, 
and  as  he  faltered  from  the  loss  of  blood,  led  him  towards 
the  farm  house.  As  they  approached  it,  two  ladies  ad 
vanced  to  meet  them  —  one  of  them  was  Meena,  the  other 
Madame  Von  Berlingen. 

"  Dangerfeld  wounded !  "  cried  the  latter,  bursting  into 
tears  —  "  O,  I  have  been  the  cause  of  this  :  forgive  me  — - 
forgive  me,  Dangerfeld,  or  you  will  kill  me." 

"  You  forget,  madame,  that  you  belong  to  another." 

"  I  am  yours  only  — I  can  never  love  another.  Nor 
does  the  person  you  allude  to,"  added  the  lady,  turning  to 
Ernest,  "  cherish  any  attachment  to  me." 

"  My  only  feeling  for  you,  madame,"  said  Ernest,  with 
meaning,  "  would  be  gratitude,  were  a  certain  paper  de 
stroyed." 

« What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  "  asked  the  father  of 
Ernest,  coming  forward. 

"  It  means,"  said  Ernest,  tearing  to  atoms  the  promis 
sory  note  he  received  from  the  widow's  hands,  "  that  I  had 
very  ugly  dreams  last  night  —  I  dreamed  that  I  played  at 


THE    GAME    OF    CHANCE.  381 

rouge-et-noir,  and  lost  all  the  money  you  gave  me  to  pur 
chase  my  commission  with,  and  then  that  I  made  up  the 
loss  by  promising " 

"  Hush  ! "  said  the  widow,  laying  her  finger  on  her  lips. 
•  "  Then  it  was  all  a  dream,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Look  at  my  uniform,"  replied  the  captain. 

"  And  what  did  you  mean  in  the  story  you  told  me  just 
now  ?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Forget  it,  father/'  said  Ernest.  "  Dear  Meena,  look 
up,  my  love.  It  is  our  wedding  day ;  and  if  you  do  but 
smile,  I'm  the  happiest  dog  that  wears  a  sabre  and  a 
doliman." 

That  very  day  two  weddings  were  celebrated  in  the 
farm  house,  those  of  Captain  Ernest  Walstein  with  the 
Fraulein  Meena  Altenburg,  and  Baron  Von  Dangerfeld 
with  the  yet  beautiful  and  wealthy  widow.  The  captain 
Dever  tried  his  luck  again  at  any  GAME  OF  CHANCE. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   SON. 

MANY,  many  years  ago,  at  the  close  of  a  sultry  sum 
mer's  day,  a  man  of  middle  age  was  slowly  toiling  up  a 
hill  in  the  environs  of  the  pleasant  village  of  Aumont,  a 
small  town  in  the  south  of  France.  The  wayfarer  was 
clad  in  the  habiliments  of  a  private  of  the  infantry  of  the 
line  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  wore  a  long-skirted,  blue  coat,  faced 
with  red,  much  soiled  and  stained ;  kerseymere  breeches 
that  were  once  white,  met  at  the  knee  by  tattered  gaiters 
of  black  cloth,  an  old  battered  chapeau,  and  a  haversack, 
which  he  carried  slung  over  his  right  shoulder,  on  a 
sheathed  sabre.  From  time  to  time,  he  paused  and  wiped 
the  heavy  drops  of  perspiration  that  gathered  constantly 
upon  his  forehead. 

"  Courage,  Franfois,  courage,"  said  the  soldier  to  him 
self;  "  a  few  paces  more,  and  you  will  reach  home.  Ah, 
this  is  sufficiently  fatiguing,  but  nothing  to  the  sands  of 
Egypt.  May  Heaven  preserve  my  eyesight  long  enough 
to  see  my  home  —  my  wife  —  my  brave  boy  Victor,  once 
more !  Grant  me  but  that,  kind  Heaven,  and  I  think  I 
will  repine  at  nothing  that  may  happen  further." 

It  will  be  seen  from  the  above,  that  Fra^ois  Bertrand 
belonged  to  the  army  which  had  recently  covered  itself 
with  glory  in  the  Egyptian  campaign,  under  the  command 
of  General  Bonaparte,  a  name  already  famous  in  military 
annals.  He  had  fought  like  a  hero  in  the  battle  of  the 

382 


THE  SOLDIER'S  SON.  383 

Pyramids,  when  the  squares  of  the  French  infantry  re 
pulsed  the  brilliant  cavalry  of  Murad  Bey,  and  destroyed 
the  flower  of  the  Mamelukes  by  the  deadly  fire  of  their 
musketry.  Wounded  in  that  memorable  battle,  he  was 
afterwards  attacked  by  the  ophthalmia  of  the  country  ;  but 
his  eyesight,  though  impaired,  was  not  yet  utterly  de 
stroyed.  Honorably  discharged,  he  had  just  arrived  at 
Marseilles,  from  Egypt,  and  was  now  on  his  way  home, 
eager  to  be  folded  in  the  arms  of  his  beloved  wife  and  his 
young  son.  So  the  soldier  toiled  bravely  up  the  hill,  for 
he  knew  that  the  white  walls  of  his  cottage  and  the  foliage 
of  his  little  vineyard  would  be  visible  in  the  valley  com 
manded  by  the  summit. 

At  length  he  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  gazed 
eagerly  in  the  direction  of  his  humble  home  ;  but  O,  agony, 
it  was  gone !  In  its  place,  a  heap  of  blackened  ruins  lay 
smouldering  in  the  sunlight  that  seemed  to  mock  its  des 
olation.  Fatigue  —  weakness  —  were  instantly  forgotten, 
and  the  soldier  rushed  down  the  brow  of  the  hill  to  the 
scene  of  the  disaster.  At  the  gate  of  his  vineyard,  he  was 
*net  by  little  Victor,  a  boy  of  ten. 

"  A  soldier !  "  cried  the  boy,  who  did  not  recognize  his 
father.  "  O  sir,  you  come  back  from  the  wars,  don't  you  ? 
Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  something  about  my  poor  papa  ?  " 

"  Victor,  my  boy,  my  dear  boy  !  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 
cried  the  poor  soldier ;  and  he  strained  his  son  convulsively 
in  his  arms. 

"  O,  I  know  you  now,  my  dear,  dear  papa,"  said  the 
boy,  sobbing.  "I  knew  you  by  the  voice — but  how 
changed  you  are  !  Why,  your  mustaches  are  turned  gray." 

"Victor,  Victor,  where  is  your  mother?"  gasped  the 
soldier. 

"  Poor  mamma !  "  said  the  boy. 


884  THE  SOLDIER'S  SON. 

"  Speak  —  I  charge  you,  boy." 

"  She  is  dead." 

"  Dead ! "  Fran9ois  fell  to  the  ground  as  if  a  bullet  had 
passed  through  his  brain.  When  he  recovered  his  senses, 
he  saw  Victor  kneeling  beside  him,  and  bathing  his  head 
with  cold  water,  which  he  had  brought  in  his  hat  from  a 
neighboring  spring.  In  a  few  words,  the  child  told  him 
their  cottage  had  taken  fire  in  the  night,  and  been  burned 
to  the  ground,  and  his  mother  had  perished  in  the  flames. 

A  kind  cottager  soon  made  his  appearance,  and  con 
ducted  the  unfortunate  father  and  son  to  his  humble  cabin. 
Here  they  passed  the  night  and  one  or  two  days  following. 
During  that  time,  Franfois  Bertrand  neither  ate  nor  slept, 
but  wept  over  his  misfortune  with  an  agony  that  refused  all 
consolation.  On  the  third  day  only  he  regained  his  com 
posure  ;  but  it  was  only  to  be  conscious  of  a  new  and  over 
whelming  misfortune.  His  eyesight  was  gone.  The  agony 
of  mind  he  had  suffered,  and  the  tears  he  had  shed,  had 
completed  the  ravages  of  his  disorder. 

"  Where  are  you,  Victor  ?  "  said  the  soldier. 

"  Here,  by  your  side,  father ;  don't  you  see  me  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  no,  my  boy.  I  can  see  nothing.  Give  me  youi 
little  hand.  Your  poor  father  is  blind." 

The  agonizing  sobs  of  the  boy  told  him  how  keenly  he 
appreciated  his  father's  misfortune. 

"  Dry  your  eyes,  Victor,"  said  the  soldier.  "  Remember 
the  instructions  of  your  poor  mother,  how  she  taught  you 
to  submit  with  resignation  to  all  the  sufferings  that  Prov 
idence  sees  fit  to  inflict  upon  us  in  this  world  of  sorrow. 
Henceforth  you  must  see  for  both  of  us;  you  will  be  my 
eyes,  my  boy." 

"  Yes,  father  ;  and  I  will  work  for  you  and  support  you  v 


THE  SOLDIER'S  SON  385 

"You  are  too  young  and  delicate,  Victor.  "We  must 
Li  g  our  bread." 

«  Beg,  father  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  shall  guide  my  footsteps.  There  are  good 
people  in  the  world  who  will  pity  my  infirmities  and  your 
youth.  When  they  see  my  ragged  uniform,  they  will  say, 
*  There  is  one  of  the  braves  who  upheld  the  honor  of 
France  upon  the  burning  sands  of  Egypt/  and  they  will 
not  fail  to  drop  a  few  sous  into  the  old  soldier's  hat.  Come, 
Victor,  we  must  march.  We  have  been  too  long  a  burden 
on  our  poor  neighbor.  Courage,  mon  enfant,  le  Ion  temps 
viendra" 

And  so  the  boy  and  his  father  set  forth  upon  their  wan 
derings.  Neither  asked  alms ;  but  when  seated  by  the 
roadside,  under  the  shadow  of  an  overhanging  tree,  the 
passer-by  would  halt,  and  bestow  a  small  sum  upon  the 
worn  and  blind  soldier.  Victor  was  devoted  to  his  father, 
and  Heaven  smiled  upon  his  filial  affection.  Though 
denied  the  society  and  sports  so  dear  to  his  youth,  he  was 
always  cheerful  and  happy  in  the  accomplishment  of  his 
task.  Often  did  his  innocent  gayety  beguile  his  father  into 
a  temporary  forgetfulness  of  his  sufferings.  Then  he 
would  place  his  hand  upon  the  boy's  head,  and  stroking  his 
soft,  curling  locks,  smile  sweetly  as  his  sightless  eyes  were 
turned  towards  him,  and  commence  some  stirring  narrative 
of  military  adventure. 

In  this  way,  days,  weeks,  months,  and  even  years  rolled 
by.  They  were  every  where  well  received  and  kindly 
treated ;  and  all  their  physical  wants  were  supplied.  But 
the  old  soldier  often  sighed  to  think  of  the  burden  his  mis 
fortunes  imposed  upon  his  boy,  and  of  his  wearing  out  his 
young  life  without  congenial  companionship,  without  in* 
33 


886  THE  SOLDIER'S  SON. 

etruction,  without  a  future  beyond  the  life  of  a  mendicant. 
He  often  prayed  in  secret  that  death  might  liberate,  hia 
little  guide  from  his  voluntary  service. 

One  day,  Francois  was  seated  alone  on  a  stone  by  the 
roadside,  Victor  having  gone  to  the  neighboring  village  on 
an  errand,  when  he  suddenly  heard  a  carriage  stop  beside 
him.  •  The  occupant,  a  man  of  middle  age,  alighted,  and 
approached  the  soldier. 

"  Your  name,"  said  the  stranger,  "  is,  I  think,  Franpois 
Bertrand." 

«  The  same." 

ft  A  soldier  of  the  army  of  Egypt  ?  " 

"Yes." 

H  And  that  pretty  boy  who  guides  you  is  your  son  ? ' 

u  He  is  —  Heaven  bless  him  !  " 

"Amen!  But  has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  my  friend, 
that  you  are  doing  him  great  injustice  in  keeping  him  by 
you  at  an  age  when  he  ought  to  be  getting  an  education  to 
enable  him  to  push  his  way  in  the  world?" 

"  Alas !  sir,  I  have  often  thought  of  it.  But  what  could 
gupply  his  place  ?  and  then,  who  would  befriend  and  educate 
him?" 

"  His  place  might  be  supplied  by  a  dog  —  and  for  his 
protector,  I,  myself,  who  have  no  son,  should  be  glad  to 
adopt  and  educate  him." 

His  son's  place  supplied  by  a  dog !  The  thought  was 
agony.  And  to  part  with  Victor  !  The  idea  was  as  cruel 
as  death  itself.  The  old  soldier  was  silent. 

"You  are  silent,  my  friend.  Has  my  offer  offended 
you?" 

"  No  sir  —  no.     But  you  will  pardon  a  father's  feelings.'1 

"I  respect  them  —  and  I  do  not  wish  to  hurry  you. 
Take  a  day  to  think  of  my  proposition,  and  to  inform  your- 


THE  SOLDIER'S  SON.  387 

ielf  respecting  my  character  and  position.  I  am  a  mer 
chant.  My  name  is  Eugene  Marmont,  and  I  reside  at  No. 
17  Rue  St.  Honore,  Paris.  I  will  meet  you  at  this  spo% 
to-morrow  at  the  same  hour,  and  shall  then  expect  an  an 
swer.  Au  revoir"  He  placed  a  golden  louis  in  the  hand 
of  the  soldier,  and  departed. 

A  little  reflection  convinced  Bertrand  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  accept  the  merchant's  offer.  But  cruel  as  was  the  task  of 
reconciling  himself  to  parting  with  his  son,  that  of  inducing 
Victor  to  acquiesce  in  the  arrangement  was  yet  more  diffi 
cult.  It  required  the  exercise  of  authority  to  sever  the  ties 
that  bound  the  son  to  the  father.  But  it  was  done  —  Vic 
tor  resigned  his  task  to  a  little  dog  that  was  procured  by 
the  merchant,  and  after  an  agonizing  farewell  was  whirled 
away  in  Harmon t's  carriage. 

Years  passed  on.  Victor  outstripped  all  his  companions 
at  school,  and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  military  academy ; 
for  he  was  striving  to  win  a  name  and  fortune  for  his  father. 
The  good  Marmont,  from  time  to  time,  endeavored  to  ob 
tain  tidings  of  the  soldier;  but  the  latter  had  purposely 
changed  his  usual  route,  and,  satisfied  that  his  son  was  in 
good  hands,  felt  a  sort  of  pride  in  not  intruding  his  poverty 
and  misfortunes  on  the  notice  of  Victor's  new  companions. 
The  boy,  himself,  was  much  distressed  at  not  seeing  or  hear 
ing  from  his  father ;  but  he  kept  struggling  on,  saying  to 
himself,  "Courage,  Victor  —  le  bon  temps  viendra  —  tho 
good  time  will  come." 

On  the  death  of  Marmont,  he  entered  the  army  as  a  sub 
lieutenant,  and  fought  his  way  up  to  a  captaincy  under  the 
eye  of  the  emperor.  At  the  close  of  a  brilliant  campaign 
he  was  invited  to  pass  a  few  weeks  at  the  chateau  of  a  gen 
eral  officer  named  Duvivier,  a  few  leagues  from  Paris.  Tho 
lompany  there  was  brilliant,  composed  of  all  that  was  most 


888  THE  SOLDIER'S  SON. 

beautiful,  talented,  and  distinguished  in  the  circle  in  which 
the  general  moved.  But  the  "  star  of  that  goodly  company  " 
was  Julie  Duvivier,  the  youthful  and  accomplished  daughter 
of  the  general.  Many  distinguished  suitors  contended  for 
the  honor  of  her  hand ;  but  the  moment  Victor  appeared, 
they  felt  they  had  a  formidable  rival.  The  belle  of  the 
chateau  could  not  help  showing  her  decided  preference  for 
him,  though,  with  a  modesty  and  delicacy  natural  to  his 
position,  he  refrained  from  making  any  decided  advances. 

One  night,  however,  transported  beyond  himself  by 
passion,  he  betrayed  the  secret  of  his  heart  to  Julie,  as  he 
led  her  to  her  seat  after  an  intoxicating  waltz.  The  re 
ception  of  his  almost  involuntary  avowal  was  such  as  to 
convince  him  that  his  affection  was  returned.  But  he  felt 
that  he  had  done  wrong  —  and  a  high  sense  of  honor  in 
duced  the  young  soldier  immediately  to  seek  the  general, 
and  make  him  a  party  to  his  wishes. 

He  found  him  alone  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window  that 
opened  on  the  garden  of  the  chateau. 

"  General,"  said  he,  with  military  frankness,  "  I  love  your 
daughter." 

The  general  started,  and  cast  a  glance  of  displeasure  on 
the  young  man. 

"I  know  you  but  slightly,  Captain  Bertrand,"  he  an 
swered,  "  but  you  are  aware  that  the  man  who  marries  my 
daughter  must  be  able  to  give  her  her  true  position  in  society. 
Show  me  the  proofs  of  your  nobility  and  wealth,  and  I  will 
entertain  your  proposition." 

"  Alas  ! "  answered  the  young  soldier  in  a  faltering  voice 
"  I  feel  that  I  have  erred  —  pity  me  — forgive  me  —  I  wag 
led  astray  by  a  passion  too  strong  to  be  controlled.  I  have 
no  name  —  and  my  fortune  is  my  sword." 

The  general  bowed  coldly,  and  the  young  soldier  passed 


THE  SOLDIER'S  SON.  389 

out  into  the  garden.  It  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  evening. 
Every  object  was  defined  as  clearly  as  if  illuminated  by  the 
sun's  rays.  Removing  his  chapeau,  that  the  night  air  might 
•,ool  his  fevered  brow,  he  was  about  to  take  his  favorite  seat 
beside  the  fountain  where  he  had  passed  many  hours  in 
weaving  bright  visions  of  the  future,  when  he  perceived 
that  it  was  already  occupied.  An  old  man  in  a  faded  mili 
tary  uniform  sat  there,  with  a  little  dog  lying  at  his  feet. 
One  glance  was  sufficient  —  the  next  instant  Victor  folded 
his  father  in  his  arms. 

"  Father  ! "  "  My  boy ! "  The  words  were  interrupted  by 
convulsive  sobs. 

After  the  first  passionate  greeting  was  over,  the  old  man 
passed  his  hand  over  his  son's  dress,  and  a  smile  of  joy  was 
revealed  by  the  bright  moonbeams. 

"  A  soldier !  I  thought  I  heard  the  clatter  of  your 
sabre,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Where  did  you  get  these  epau 
lets?" 

"  At  Austerlitz,  father  —  they  were  given  me  by  the  em 
peror." 

"  Long  live  the  emperor ! "  said  the  old  man.  "  He  never 
forgets  his  children." 

"  No,  father.  For  when  he  gave  me  my  commission, 
he  said,  thoughtfully,  '  Bertrand !  your  name  is  familiar.' 
*  Yes,  sire  —  my  father  served  under  the  tricolor.'  *  I  re 
member  —  he  was  one  of  my  old  Egyptians/  And  then 
—  father  —  then  he  gave  me  the  cross  of  the  legion  — 
and  told  me,  when  I  found  you,  to  affix  it  to  your  breast  in 
his  name." 

"  It  is  almost  too  much  !  "  sighed  the  old  soldier,  as  tho 
young  officer  produced  the  cross  and  attached  it  to  his  fa 
ther's  breast. 

33*  z 


390  THE  SOLDIER'S  SON. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  young  man,  "  give  mo  your  hand 
as  of  old,  dear  father,  and  let  me  lead  you." 

"  Whither  ?  " 

"  Into  the  saloon  of  the  chateau,  to  present  you  to  General 
Duvivier  and  his  guests." 

"  What !  in  my  rags  !  before  all  that  grand  company  ?  " 

"  Why  not,  father  ?  The  ragged  uniform  of  a  brave 
soldier  who  bears  the  cross  of  honor  on  his  breast  is  the 
proudest  decoration  in  the  world.  Come,  father." 

Leading  his  blind  father,  young  Bertrand  reentered  the 
saloon  he  had  so  lately  left,  and  went  directly  to  the  general, 
who  was  standing,  surrounded  by  his  glittering  staff. 

"  General,"  said  he,  "  here  is  my  title  of  nobility  —  my 
father  is  all  the  wealth  I  possess  in  the  world." 

Tears  started  to  the  general's  eyes,  and  he  shook  the 
old  soldier  warmly  by  the  hand.  Then  beckoning  to 
Julie,  he  led  her  to  Victor,  and  placed  her  trembling  hand 
in  his. 

"  Let  this  dear  girl,"  said  he,  "  make  amends  for  my  cold 
ness  a  moment  since.  A  son  so  noble  hearted  is  worthy  of 
all  happiness." 

In  a  word,  Captain,  afterwards  Colonel,  Bertrand  married 
the  general's  daughter,  and  the  happiness  of  their  fireside 
was  completed  by  the  constant  presence  of  the  good  old 
soldier,  to  whose  self-denial  Victor  owed  his  honors  and  do 
mestic  bliss. 


TAKING  CHARGE  OF  A  LADY. 

THE  steamer  Ben  Franklin  —  it  was  many  years  ago, 
reader  —  was  just  on  the  point  of  leaving  her  dock  at  Prov 
idence,  when  a  slender,  pale  young  man,  with  sandy  whis 
ker?  and  green  eyes,  who  had  just  safely  stowed  away  his 
valise,  honorably  paid  his  fare,  and  purchased  a  supper 
ticket,  and  now  stood  on  the  upper  deck,  leaning  on  his 
blue  cotton  umbrella  in  a  mild  attitude  of  contemplation, 
was  accosted  by  a  benevolent-looking  old  gentleman,  in  gold- 
bowed  spectacles,  upon  whose  left  arm  hung  a  feminine,  in 
a  bright  mazarine  blue  broadcloth  travelling  habit,  with  a 
gold  watch  at  her  waist,  and  a  green  veil  over  her  face, 
with  the  (to  a  timid  young  man)  startling  question  of,  — 

"  Pray,  sir,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  charge  of  a 
lady?" 

The  slender  young  man  with  the  blue  cotton  umbrella 
blushed  up  to  the  roots  of  his  sandy  hair,  but  he  bowed 
deeply  and  affirmatively. 

"  We  were  disappointed  in  not  meeting  a  friend,  sir," 
continued  the  benevolent-looking  old  gentleman,  "  and  so  I 
had  to  trust  to  chance  for  finding  an  escort  to  Fanny.  Only 
as  far  as  New  York,  sir  ;  my  daughter  will  give  you  very 
little  trouble.  She's  a  strong-minded,  independent  woman, 
sir,  and  abundantly  able  to  take  care  of  herself ;  but  I  don't 
like  the  idea  of  ladies  travelling  alone.  If  the  boat  sinks, 

391 


392  TAKING  CHARGE  OF  A  LADY. 

sir,  she's  abundantly  able  to  swim  ashore.  Good  by, 
Fanny." 

"  Father,"  said  the  lady  in  the  blue  habit,  in  a  deep  and 
mellow  baritone,  —  rather  a  queer  voice  for  a  woman, 
though,  —  "a  parting  salute !  "  She  threw  back  her  veil, 
displaying  a  pair  of  piercing  black  eyes,  kissed  the  paternal 
cheek,  veiled  the  black  eyes  a  moment  with  a  lace-bordered 
handkerchief,  as  her  sire  descended  the  gang  plank,  —  his 
exit  being  deprived  of  dignity  by  the  sudden  withdrawal  of 
the  board,  —  and  then  placed  her  arm  within  that  of  the 
sandy-haired  young  gentleman,  and  began  walking  him  up 
and  down  the  promenade  deck. 

"  Isn't  this  delightful  ?  "  said  she.  "  O,  what  can  exceed 
the  pleasure  of  travelling,  when  one  has  a  sympathizing 
friend  as  a  companion  !  "  And  she  rather  pressed  the  arm 
of  her  companion.  She  was  strong-handed  as  well  as 
strong-minded. 

Mr.  Brown,  for  that  was  the  name  of  the  timid  young 
gentleman  with  the  sandy  hair  and  the  blue  cotton  umbrel 
la,  was  not  particularly  susceptible,  for  he  had  already  lost 
his  heart  to  a  sandy-haired  young  lady,  who  resided  in 
New  York;  and,  besides,  he  didn't  like  strong-minded 
women ;  so  he  asked,  very  unromantically,  but  sensibly,  if 
the  happy  parent  of  the  lady  in  the  blue  habit  had  pur 
chased  her  a  ticket. 

"  I  believe  —  I  am  certain  that  he  did  not,"  was  the 
reply.  "  Father  is  so  forgetful !  " 

"  I'll  do  it  myself  then,  ma'am  —  if  you'll  excuse  me  a 
moment.  What  name  ?  " 

"  Brown,"  said  the  lady. 

"  My  own  name  ! "  cried  the  young  man. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  cried  the  blue  beauty.  "  What  a  coii* 
cidence  !  How  striking !  charming ! " 


TAKING    CHARGE    OF    A    LADT.  393 

She  made  no  offer  of  money,  and  Brown  invested  his 
own  funds  in  a  passage  and  supper  ticket. 

"  You  dear  creature  !  "  cried  the  lady,  when  he  handed 
them  to  her,  "  you  are  very  attentive.  But  there  was  no 
necessity  for  this  supper  ticket.  I  am  the  least  eater  in 
the  world." 

She  said  nothing  about  the  cost  of  the  tickets  ;  and  hew 
could  Brown  broach  the  subject  ? 

"  There's  that  bell,  at  last !  "  she  cried,  when  the  supper 
bell  rang  ;  "  do  let's  hurry  down,  Brown,  for  people  are  so 
rude  and  eager  on  board  steamboats,  that  unless  you  move 
quick  you  lose  your  chance." 

Brown  was  hurried  along  by  his  fair  friend,  and  she 
struggled  through  the  crowd  till  she  headed  the  column 
and  got  an  excellent  seat  at  the  table.  Our  sandy -haired 
friend  had  exalted  opinions  of  the  delicacy  of  female  appe 
tites  ;  he  had  never  helped  ladies  at  a  ball,  or  seen  them 
in  a  pantry  at  luncheon  time,  and  fancied  they  fed  as  light 
ly  as  canary  birds.  He  was  rather  glad  to  hear  Fanny 
make  that  remark  about  the  supper  ticket  on  the  prome 
nade  deck.  But  now  he  found  she  could  eat.  The  cold 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  upon  his  forehead  as  he  watched 
the  evidences  of  her  voracity.  She  was  helped  four  times, 
by  the  captain,  to  beefsteak  —  no  miniature  slices  either, 
but  huge,  broad  cubes  of  solid  flesh.  A  dish  of  oysters 
attracted  her  eye,  and  she  gobbled  them  up  every  one. 
Toast  and  hot  bread  disappeared  before  her  ravenous  appe 
tite.  Sponge  and  pound  cake  were  despatched  with  fearful 
celerity.  She  took  up  the  attention  of  one  particular  nig 
ger,  and  he  looked  weary  and  collapsed  when  the  supper 
was  finished. 

Yet,  after  all  this,  Fanny  paraded  the  deck,  and  had  the 
heart  to  talk  about  the  "  orbs  of  heaven,"  and  Shelley,  and 


394  TAKING    CHARGE    OF    A    LADY. 

Byron,  and  Tennyson,  and  Ralph  Waldo  Emeison,  and 
Fanny  Ellsler,  and  Schiller.  Brown  was  very  glad  when 
she  retired  to  the  lady's  cabin. 

The  morning  he  rose  late,  purposely  to  avoid  her  till  the 
boat  touched  the  wharf.  He  engaged  a  carriage  and 
hunted  up  the  lady's  baggage ;  fortunately  there  was  not 
much  of  it.  This  done,  he  escorted  her  on  shore,  and 
handed  her  into  the  coach. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  the  one-eyed  driver,  —  he  had  recently 
lost  his  eye  in  a  fight,  on  the  first  night  of  his  return  from 
Blackwell's  Island,  —  "  where  away  ?  Oyster  House,  'Mer- 
rikin,  or  Globe  ?  " 

"  Where  are  you  going,  madam  ?  "  asked  Brown. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  the  lady. 

"  To  the  American,  ma'am." 

"  What  a  coincidence !  "  exclaimed  the  lady,  rolling  up 
her  black  eyes. 

"  American  House,  driver." 

"  All  right  —  in  with  you  ! "  cried  the  one-eyed  man,  as 
he  pitched  Brown  headlong  into  the  coach,  slammed  the 
rickety  door  on  him,  sprang  to  his  box,  and  lashed  his  sorry 
steeds  into  a  gallop.  In  due  time  they  arrived,  and  a 
room  was  engaged  for  the  lady,  and  one  for  her  cavalier. 

Brown  went  up  town  as  soon  as  he  had  dressed,  to  see 
his  sweetheart,  taking  particular  care  to  say  nothing  of  his 
namesake,  the  fair  Fanny. 

The  next  day  he  was  promenading  Broadway  with  Miss 
S.,  when  he  was  confronted,  opposite  St.  Paul's,  by  a  furi 
ous  man,  with  black  whiskers,  who  halted  directly  in  his 
path. 

"  Do  you  call  yourself  Brown  ?  "  asked  the  furious  man, 
furiously. 

"  That's  my  name,  sir,"  said  the  sandy-haired  young  gen 
tleman,  meekly. 


TAKING  CHARGE  OF  A  LADY.  393 

"It's  my  name,  sir,"  shouted  the  furious  man.  "John 
Brown.  Now  you  know  who  I  am.  Do  you  know  Mrs. 
Brown  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  stammered  the  unfortunate  young  man 
with  sandy  hair. 

"  Who  did  you  come  from  Providence  with  ?  answer  me 
that !  "  roared  the  furious  man,  getting  as  black  as  his 
whiskers  with  apoplectic  rage. 

"I  —  I  took  charge  of  a  lady,  certainly,"  stammered  the 
guiltless  but  confounded  young  man. 

"  You  took  charge  of  Mrs.  Brown,  sir  —  Fanny  Sopho- 
nisba  Brown,  sir,  who  has  left  my  bed  and  board  without 
provocation,  sir,  —  vide  the  Providence  papers,  sir,  —  left 
me,  sir,  because  I  didn't  approve  of  her  strong-minded 
goings  on,  sir,  her  woman's-rights  meetings,  sir,  and  her 
nigger  colonizations,  sir,  and  her  —  but  that's  enough,  sir." 

Here  Miss  Suraker,  who  was  a  mild,  freckled-faced  girl, 
dropped  the  arm  of  her  companion,  and  meekly  sat  down 
on  a  doorstep,  and  covered  her  face  with  a  handkerchief. 

"  Mr.  Brown,  sir  !  "  cried  our  poor  young  friend,  finally 
plucking  up  a  spirit. 

"  Go  it,  lemons ! "  shouted  a  listening  drayman,  as  he 
hung  over  the  scene  from  one  of  his  cart  stakes. 

"  Captain  Brown,"  suggested  the  furious  man,  with  smoth 
ered  rage. 

"  Well  then,  Captain  Brown,"  said  Brown,  2d.,  spiteful 
ly,  "the  lady  you  allude  to  is  a  total  stranger  to  me. 
She  was  put  under  my  care  by  a  benevolent-looking  old 
gentleman,  with  gold-bowed  spectacles,  and  she  has  already 
cost  me  ten  dollars,  money  advanced  on  her  account." 

"  All  persons  are  forbidden  to  trust  the  same,  as  I  will 
pay  no  debts  of  her  contracting,"  said  the  furious  man,  with 
gleams  of  unmitigated  ferocity  and  savage  exultation. 


896  TAKING    CHARGE    OF    A    LADY. 

"  Then  I'm  done  brown,  that's  all,"  said  the.  young  man, 
gloomily.  "As  for  Mrs.  Fanny  Sophomsba  Brown,  I 
never  want  to  see  her  face  again.  She  is  at  the  American 
House,  and  you  can  recover  her  by  proving  property  and 
paying  charges.  And,  for  my  part,  I  hope  I  may  be 
kicked  to  death  by  grasshoppers  if  ever  I  take  charge  of  a 
lady  again." 

This  was  the  largest  speech,  probably,  that  the  sandy- 
haired  young  man  had  ever  made  in  his  life.  It  was  a  reg 
ular  "  stunner,"  though.  It  convinced  Miss  Sumker,  who 
had  for  a  moment  thought  of  withdrawing  the  light  of  her 
freckles  from  him  forever,  and  who  now  hastened  to  re 
place  her  arm  in  his ;  and  it  convinced  Captain  Brown, 
who  became  suddenly  as  mild  as  moonbeams,  shook  his 
new  acquaintance  by  the  hand,  and  declared  him  a,  "  fine 
young  fellow." 

But  the  drayman  was  disgusted  at  the  affair  ending 
without  a  fight,  and  expressed  his  feelings,  as  he  laid  the 
lash  across  his  horse,  by  the  single  exclamation,  "  Pickles ! " 
thereby  insinuating  that  the  nauseous  sweetness  of  the 
reconciliation  required  a  strong  dash  of  acidity  to  neutral 
ize  its  flavor. 

The  captain  regained  his  strong-minded  wife,  and  our 
sandy-haired  friend  went  home  with  Miss  Sumker,  meta 
morphosed  into  Mrs.  Brown,  having  "  taken  charge  "  of 
her  for  life. 


THE   NEW  YEAR'S   BELLS. 

HOTV  the  wind  blew  on  the  evening  of  the  31st  Decem 
ber,  in  the  year  —  but  no  matter  for  the  date.  It  came 
roaring  from  the  north,  fraught  with  the  icy  dullness  of 
those  hyperborean  regions  that  are  lost  to  the  sunlight  for 
six  months,  the  realm  of  ice-ribbed  caverns,  and  snow 
mountains  heaped  up  above  the  horizon  in  the  cold  and 
cheerless  sky.  On  it  came,  that  northern  blast,  howling 
and  tearing,  and  menacing  with  destruction  every  obstacle 
that  crossed  its  path.  It  dashed  right  through  a  gorge  in 
the  mountains,  and  twisted  the  arms  of  the  rock-rooted 
hemlock  and  the  giant  oak,  as  if  they  were  the  twigs  of 
saplings.  Then  it  swept  over  the  wild,  waste  meadows, 
rattling  the  frozen  sedge,  and  whirling  into  eddies  the  few  dry 
leaves  that  remained  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth.  Next 
it  invaded  the  principal  street  of  the  quaint  old  village,  and 
played  the  mischief  with  the  tall  elms  and  the  venerable 
buttonwoods  that  stood  on  either  side  like  sentinels  guarding 
the  highway.  How  the  old  gilt  lion  that  swung  from  the 
sign  post  of  the  tavern,  hanging  like  a  malefactor  in  irons, 
was  shaken  and  disturbed !  Backwards  and  forwards  the' 
animal  was  tossed,  like  a  bark  upon  the  ocean.  Now  he 
seemed  as  if  about  to  turn  a  somerset  and  circumnavigate 
the  beam  from  which  he  hung,  creaking  and  groaning  dis 
mally  all  the  while,  like  an  unhappy  soul  in  purgatory. 
The  loose  shutters  of  the  upper  story  of  the  tavern  chat- 
34  397 


398         THE  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS. 

tered  like  the  teeth  of  a  witch -ridden  old  crone.  But 
cheerful  fires  of  hickory  and  maple  were  burning  within 
doors ;  a  merry  group  was  gathered  in  the  old  oak  parlor, 
and  little  recked  the  guests  of  the  elemental  war  without. 
In  fact,  they  knew  nothing  of  it,  till  the  driver  of  the  vil 
lage  stage  coach,  making  his  appearance  with  a  few  flakes 
of  snow  on  his  snuff-colored  surtout,  announced,  as  he  ex 
panded  his  broad  hands  to  the  genial  blaze,  that  it  was  a 
"  wild  night  out  of  doors." 

But  on  —  on  sped  the  wild  wind,  driving  the  snow  flakes 
before  it  as  a  victorious  army  sweeps  away  the  routed 
skirmishers  and  outposts  of  the  enemy.  Away  went  the 
night  wind  on  its  wild  errand,  reaching  at  last  a  solitary 
cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  Here  it  revelled  in 
unwonted  fury,  ripping  up  the  loose  shingles  from  the  moss- 
grown  rooftree,  and  forcing  an  entrance  through  many  a 
yawning  crevice. 

The  scene  within  the  cottage  presented  a  strange  and 
painful  contrast  to  the  interior  of  most  of  the  comfortable 
houses  in  the  flourishing  village  through  which  we  have 
been  hurrying  on  the  wings  of  the  cold  north  wind.  The 
room  was  scantily  furnished.  There  were  two  or  three 
very  old-fashioned,  rickety,  straw-bottomed  chairs,  an  oaken 
stool  or  two,  and  a  pine  table.  The  hour  hand  of  a  wooden 
clock  on  the  mantel  piece  pointed  to  eleven.  A  fire  of  chips 
and  brushwood  was  smouldering  on  the  hearth.  In  one 
corner  of  the  room,  near  the  fireplace,  on  a  heap  of  straw, 
covered  with  a  blanket,  two  little  boys  lay  sleeping  in  each 
other's  arms.  Crouched  near  the  table,  her  features  dimly 
lighted  by  a  tallow  candle,  sat  a  woman  advanced  in  life, 
clad  in  faded  but  cleanly  garments,  whose  hollow  cheeks 
and  sunken  eye  told  a  painful  tale  of  sorrow  and  destitu 
tion.  Those  sad  eyes  were  fixed  anxiously  and  imploringly 


THE  NEW  TEAK'S  BELLS.         399 

upon  the  stern,  grim  face  of  a  hard-featured  old  man,  who, 
with  hat  pulled  over  his  shaggy  gray  eyebrows,  was  stand 
ing,  resting  on  a  stout  staff,  in  the  centre  of  the  floor. 

"  So,  you  haven't  got  any  money  for  me,"  said  the  old 
man,  in  the  harshest  of  all  possible  voices. 

"  Alas  !  no,  Mr.  Wurm  —  if  I  had  I  should  have  brought 
it  to  you  long  ago,"  answered  the  poor  woman.  "  I  had 
raked  and  scraped  a  little  together  —  but  the  sickness  of 
these  poor  children  —  poor  William's  orphans  —  swept  it 
all  away  —  I  haven't  got  a  cent." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you,  Mrs.  Redman,"  answered 
the  old  man,  harshly.  "  I've  been  easy  with  you  —  I've 
waited  and  waited  —  trusting  your  promises.  I  can't  wait 
any  longer.  I  want  the  money." 

"You  want  the  money !  Is  it  possible ?  Report  speaks 
you  rich." 

"It's  false  —  false!"  said  the  old  man,  bitterly.  "I'm 
poor  —  I'm  pinched.  Ask  the  townspeople  how  I  live. 
Do  I  look  like  a  rich  man  ?  No,  no !  I  tell  you  I  want  my 
dues  —  and  I  will  have  'em." 

"  I  can't  pay  you,"  said  the  woman,  sadly. 

"  Then  you  must  abide  the  consequences  ! " 

"  What  consequences  ?  " 

"  I've  got  an  execution  —  that's  all,"  said  the  hardheart 
ed  landlord. 

"  An  execution !  what's  that  ?  " 

"  A  warrant  to  take  all  your  goods." 

"  My  goods ! "  said  the  poor  woman,  looking  round  her 
with  a  melancholy  smile.  "  Why  I  have  nothing  but  what 
few  things  you  see  in  this  room.  You  surely  wouldn't  take 
those." 

«  I'll  take  all  I  can  get." 

"  And  leave  me  here  with  the  bare  walls." 


4:00  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS. 

"No,  m !  you  walk  out  of  this  to-morrow." 

"  In  the  depth  of  winter  !  You  cannot  be  so  hard 
hearted." 

"  We  shall  see  that." 

"I  care  not  for  myself;  but  what  is  to  become  of  these 
poor  children  ?  " 

"  Send  'em  to  work  in  the  factory." 

"  But  they  are  just  recovering  from  sickness ;  they  are 
too  young  to  work.  O,  where,  where  can  we  go  ?  " 

"  To  the  poorhouse,"  said  the  landlord,  fiercely. 

The  poor  woman  rose,  and  approaching  the  landlord's 
feet,  fell  upon  her  knees,  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked 
upward  in  his  stern  and  unrelenting  face. 

"  Israel  "Wurm,"  she  said,  "  has  your  heart  grown  as  hard 
as  the  nether  millstone  ?  Have  you  forgotten  the  days  of 
old  lang  syne  ?  O,  remember  that  we  were  once  prosperous 
and  happy  ;  remember  that  misfortune  and  not  sin  has  re 
duced  me  and  mine  to  the  deplorable  state  in  which  you 
find  us.  Remember  that  my  husband  was  your  early  friend 
—  your  schoolfellow  —  your  playmate.  Remember  that 
when  he  was  rich  and  you  poor,  he  gave  you  from  his 
plenty  —  freely  —  bountifully  —  not  gave  with  the  expec 
tation  of  a  return  ;  his  gifts  were  bounties,  not  loans." 

"  Therefore  I  owed  him  nothing,"  said  the  obdurate  miser, 
turning  away. 

"  You  shall  hear  me  out,"  said  the  woman,  starting  to  her 
feet.  "  I  ask  for  a  further  delay ;  I  ask  you  to  stay  the 
hard  hand  of  the  law.  You  profess  to  be  a  Christian  ;  I 
demand  justice  and  mercy  in  the  name  of  those  sleeping 
innocents,  my  poor  grandchildren,  whose  father  is  in  heaven. 
You  shall  be  merciful." 

"  Heyday  !  "  exclaimed  the  miser ;  "  this  is  fine  talk,  upon 
my  word.  You  demand  justice,  do  you  ?  Well,  you  shall 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS.         401 

have  it.  The  law  is  on  my  side,  and  I  will  carry  it  out  to 
the  letter." 

"  Then,"  said  the  outraged  woman,  stretching  forth  her 
trembling  hand,  "  the  curse  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan 
shall  be  upon  you.  Sleeping  or  waking,  it  shall  haunt  you  ; 
and  on  your  miserable  death  bed,  when  the  ugly  shapes  that 
throng  about  the  pillow  of  the  dying  sinner  shall  close  around 
you,  our  malediction  shall  weigh  like  lead  upon  you,  and 
your  palsied  lips  shall  fail  to  articulate  the  impotent  prayer 
for  that  mercy  to  yourself  which  you  denied  to  others. 
And  now  begone.  This  house  is  mine  to-night,  at  least. 
Afflict  it  no  longer  with  your  presence.  Go  forth  into  the 
night ;  it  is  not  darker  than  your  benighted  soul,  nor  is  the 
north  wind  one  half  so  pitiless  as  you." 

With  a  bitter  curse  upon  his  lips,  but  trembling  and  dis 
mayed  in  spite  of  himself,  Israel  Wurm  left  the  presence  of 
the  indignant  victim  of  his  cruelty,  and  turned  his  footsteps 
in  the  direction  of  his  home.  His  home  !  It  scarcely  de 
served  the  name.  There  was  no  fire  there  to  thaw  his 
chilled  and  trembling  frame  —  no  light  to  gleam  athwart 
the  darkness,  and  send  forth  its  pilgrim  rays  to  meet  him 
and  guide  his  footsteps  to  his  threshold.  No  wife,  no 
children,  waited  eagerly  his  return.  It  was  the  miser's 
home  —  dark,  desolate,  stern,  and  repulsive.  Its  deep  cel 
lars,  its  thick  walls  held  hidden  stores  of  gold,  and  notes, 
and  bonds,  but  there  were  garnered  up  no  treasures  of  the 
heart. 

The  miser's  path  lay  through  the  churchyard,  a  desolate 
place  enough  even  in  the  gay  noon  of  a  midsummer  day, 
now  doubly  repulsive  in  the  wild  midnight  of  midwinter. 
The  wall  was  fuinous.  The  black  iron  gateway  frowned, 
naked  and  ominous.  The  field  of  death  was  crowded  with 
headstones  of  slate,  and  innumerable  mounds  marked  the 
34* 


402  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS. 

resting-place  of  many  generations.  The  snow  was  no\t 
gathering  fast  over  the  dreary  and  desolate  abode,  as  the 
miser  stumbled  along  the  beaten  pathway,  bending  against 
the  blast  and  drift.  A  strange  numbness  and  drowsiness 
crept  over  him.  He  no  longer  felt  the  cold ;  an  uncontrol 
lable  desire  of  slumber  possessed  him.  He  sat  down  upon 
a  flat  tombstone,  and  soon  lost  all  consciousness  of  his  actual 
situation. 

Suddenly  he  saw  before  him  the  well-known  figure  of  the 
old  sexton  of  the  village,  busily  occupied  in  digging  a  grave. 
The  winter  had  passed  away ;  it  was  now  midsummer.  The 
birds  were  singing  in  the  trees,  and  from  the  far  green 
meadows  sounded  the  low  of  cattle,  and  the  tinkling  of 
sheep  bells.  Even  the  graveyard  looked  no  longer  desolate, 
for  on  many  of  the  little  hillocks  bright  flowers  were  spring 
ing  into  bloom  and  verdure,  attesting  the  affection  that  out 
lived  death,  and  decorating  with  living  bloom  the  precincts 
of  decay. 

"  My  friend,  for  whom  are  you  digging  that  grave  ? " 
asked  Israel. 

The  sexton  looked  up  from  his  work,  but  did  not  seem  to 
recognize  the  spokesman. 

"  For  a  man  that  died  last  night ;  he  is  to  be  buried 
to-day." 

"  Methinks  this  haste  is  somewhat  indecorous,"  said  Israel 
Wurm. 

"  0,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  said  the  sexton,  "  the  sooner 
this  fellow's  out  of  the  way  the  better.  There's  nobody  tc 
mourn  for  him." 

"  Is  he  a  pauper,  then  ?  " 

"  O  no  !  he  was  immensely  rich." 

u  And  had  he  no  relations  —  no  friends  ?  " 

•u  For  relations,  he  had  a  nephew,  who  inherits  all  his 


THE  NEW  TEAR'S  BELLS.  403 

property.  The  young  dog  will  make  the  money  fly,  I  tell 
you.  As  for  friends,  he  had  none.  The  poor  dreaded  him 
—  the  good  despised  him  ;  for  he  was  a  hardhearted,  self 
ish,  griping  man.  In  a  word,  he  was  a  MISER,"  said  tho 
sexton. 

"  A  miser,"  faltered  the  trembling  dreamer ;  "  what  waa 
his  name  ?  " 

"  Israel  Wurra,"  replied  the  sexton. 

Graveyard  and  sexton  faded  away ;  in  their  place  arose 
a  splendid  grove  of  trees  —  a  clearing  —  a  village  school 
house.  Two  boys  were  sauntering  along  the  roadside,  en 
gaged  in  serious,  childish  talk.  One  was  fair,  with  golden 
locks ;  the  other  dark-haired  and  grave  of  aspect.  Israel 
started,  for  in  the  latter  he  recognized  himself —  a  boy  of 
fifty  years  ago. 

"  Israel,"  said  the  golden-haired  boy,  "  it's  'lection  day 
to-morrow ;  we'll  hire  Browning's  horse  and  chaise,  and  go 
to  Boston,  and  have  a  grand  time  on  the  Common,  seeing 
all  the  shows." 

"  You  forget,  Mark,"  said  the  dark-haired  boy,  sadly, 
"  that  I  have  no  money." 

"  What  of  that  ?  "  replied  the  other ;  "  I  have  a  pocket 
full ;  and  what's  mine  is  yours,  you  know.  Come,  cheer  up, 
you'll  one  day  be  as  rich  as  I  am  ;  and  then  it  will  be  your 
turn  to  treat,  you  know.  I  can  afford  to  be  generous,  and 
so  would  you  be,  if  you  had  the  means." 

Then  the  shadow  passed  from  the  face  of  the  dark -haired 
boy,  and  a  smile  lighted  up  his  countenance,  and  the  two 
schoolfellows  passed  on  their  way  together. 

Grove  and  school  house  passed  away,  melting  into  another 
scene  like  one  of  the  dissolving  views.  Israel  stood  before 
a  huge  illuminated  screen,  in  the  midst  of  a  gaping  company 
of  sight  seers.  He  could  see  nothing  but  a  confused  mass 


404  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS. 

of  heads,  vaguely  lighted  by  the  rays  from  that  vast  screen, 
It  was  some  kind  of  an  exhibition. 

"  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  a  strange  voice  issuing 
from  the  darkness,  "  we  shall  show  you  the  wonders  of  the 
oxy-hydrogen  microscope ;  natural  objects  magnified  five 
thousand  times.  Look  and  behold  the  proboscis  of  the 
common  house  fly." 

Israel  gazed  with  the  rest,  and  soon  a  huge  object,  re 
sembling  the  trunk  of  a  monster  elephant,  appeared  on  the 
illuminated  disk.  It  passed  away. 

"  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the  voice,  "  look  well 
to  the  illuminated  screen.  What  do  you  see  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing !  "  was  the  universal  and  indignant  answer. 

"  I  thought  so,"  replied  the  voice.  "  Yet  you  have  before 
you  a  miser's  soul  magnified  five  thousand  times  ;  a  million 
such  would  not  produce  an  image  on  the  screen." 

The  illuminated  disk  grew  dark  and  disappeared  ;  then 
a  lurid  light  seemed  to  fill  all  space  ;  and  soon  huge  billows 
of  flames  rolled  upward,  and  writhed  and  twisted  together 
like  a  myriad  of  gigantic  serpents.  Shrieks  and  howls  of 
anguish  issued  from  the  fiery  mass,  but  above  all  was  heard 
the  startling  clangor  of  a  bell. 

"  Halloo !  who's  this  ?  "  cried  a  voice  that  evidently  issued 
from  a  set  of  powerful  human  lungs.  The  miser  felt  him 
self  roughly  shaken  by  the  shoulder,  and  awoke. 

"  What's  the  noise  ?  —  lire  ?  "  he  asked ;  for  the  bell  he 
had  heard  in  his  dream  now  jarred  upon  his  waking  senses. 

"  Fire !  no  !  "  said  the  man  who  had  awakened  him  —  the 
butcher  of  the  village.  "  It's  the  boys  ringing  in  the  new 
year.  By  the  way,  I  wish  you  a  happy  new  year,  Mr, 
Wurm." 

"  A  happy  new  year,  Mr.  Wurm,"  said  the  schoolmaster 
for  he,  too,  was  present. 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS.  405 

"  A  happy  new  year,"  said  Farmer  Harrowby. 

"  And  a  happy  new  year  "  chorused  a  dozen  other  voices. 
It  was  great  fun  wishing  a  miser  a  happy  new  year. 

"  Thank  you,  neighbors  ;  I  wish  you  a  thousand,"  replied 
Israel,  cheerfully. 

"  How  came  you  asleep  there  ?  "  asked  Farmer  Harrowby. 
"  Why,  you  might  have  perished  in  the  drift." 

"  I  was  overcome  by  drowsiness,"  answered  Israel.  "  I 
was  very  cold  ;  I'd  been  to  make  a  call  on  Widow  Redman, 
and  the  poor  soul  was  out  of  wood.  By  the  way,  farmer, 
the  first  thing  after  sunrise,  I  want  you  to  be  sure  to  geai 
up  your  ox  team,  and  take  a  cord  of  your  best  hickory  and 
pitch  pine  to  the  widow." 

"  And  who'll  pay  me  ?  "  asked  the  farmer,  doubtfully. 

"  I  will,  to  be  sure,"  answered  Israel.  "  Have  not  I  got 
money  enough  ?  Here  —  hold  your  hand ; "  and  he  put  a 
handful  of  silver  in  the  farmer's  honest  palm.  "  And  you, 
Mr.  Wilkins,"  he  added,  addressing  the  butcher,  "  take  her 
the  best  turkey  you've  got,  and  half  a  pig,  with  my  compli 
ments,  and  a  happy  new  year  to  her." 

"  And  how  about  that  execution  ?  "  asked  the  constable, 
who  was  round  with  the  rest,  '  seeing  the  old  year  out  and 
the  new  year  in.' 

"  Confound  the  execution  !  Don't  let  me  hear  another 
word  about  it,"  said  Israel,  magnanimously.  "And  now, 
neighbors,"  he  added,  "  I  owe  you  something  for  your  good 
wishes ;  come  along  with  me  to  the  Golden  Lion,  and  I'll 
give  you  the  best  supper  the  tavern  affords.  Hurrah ! 
New  year  don't  come  but  once  in  a  twelvemonth." 

We  will  be  bound  that  a  meirier  party  never  left  a 
churchyard,  even  after  a  funeral,  nor  a  merrier  set  ever  sat 
down  to  a  festal  board,  than  that  which  gathered  to  greet 
the  hospitality  of  Israel  Wurm.  In  the  course  of  the  even- 

2  A 


406  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS. 

ing,  an  old  Scotch  gardener  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  >he 
"  miser  was  fey."  (When  a  man  suddenly  changes  his 
character,  as  when  a  spendthrift  becomes  saving,  or  a  nig 
gard  generous,  the  Scotch  say  that  he  is  fey,  and  consider 
the  change  a  forerunner  of  sudden  death.) 

"  No,  my  friends,"  said  Israel,  overhearing  the  remark, 
"  I  am  not  fey  ;  and  I  mean  to  live  a  long  while,  Heaven 
willing,  for  I  have  just  learned  that  the  true  secret  of  en 
joying  life  is  to  do  good  to  others.  I  had  a  dream  to-nignt 
which  has,  I  trust,  made  me  a  wiser  and  better  man.  The 
miser  lies  buried  in  yonder  churchyard ;  Israel  Wurm,  a 
new  man,  has  risen  in  his  place  ;  and  as  far  as  my  means 
go,  I  intend  that  this  shall  be  a  happy  new  year  to  every 
one  of  my  acquaintances." 

Israel  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  never  relapsed  into 
his  old  habits.  The  widow  and  the  orphan  children  were 
provided  for  by  his  bounty ;  he  gave  liberally  to  every  ob 
ject  of  charity.  Hospitals,  schools,  and  colleges  were  the 
recipients  of  his  bounty ;  and  when  he  died,  in  the  fulness 
of  years,  the  blessings  of  old  and  young  followed  him  to  his 
last  resting-place  in  the  old  churchyard  where  he  had 
dreamed  the  mysterious  dream,  and  been  awakened  to  a 
better  life  by  the  pealing  of  the  NEW  YEAR'S  BELLS. 


THE   OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 

"  0,  THIS  is  beautiful — beautiful  indeed !"  cried  a  young 
hind  silvery  voice,  musical  as  fairy  bells  heard  at  midnight. 
"  How  white  this  snowy  drapery  hangs  upon  the  roofs  of 
these  bright  palaces ! "  and  the  speaker,  a  gay  boy,  danced 
trippingly  along,  following  in  the  footsteps  of  an  old,  gray- 
bearded  man  who  was  tottering  before  him. 

The  old  man  turned.  "  You  %call  that  snowy  drapery 
beautiful  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes  —  it  is  like  the  raiment  of  a  bride,"  said  the  boy. 

"  To  me  it  seems  a  shroud  thrown  over  the  grave  of 
buried  hopes,"  answered  the  old  man. 

"  But  what  are  these  joy  bells  ringing  for  ?  "  said  the  boy. 

"  For  a  death  and  for  a  birth ! "  replied  the  old  man. 

«  You  speak  riddles." 

"I  speak  truth.  The  same  sounds  have  a  different 
import  to  different  ears.  To  mine  there  is  a  death  knell  in 
these  tremulous  vibrations  of  the  air." 

"  You  are  very  old,  father  —  and  age  has  cankered  you." 

"  A  twelvemonth  since,  young  child  of  Time,"  replied  the 
old  man,  "  I  was  like  you." 

"  A  twelvemonth !  Your  back  is  bent,  your  locks  are  sil 
very,  your  voice  is  tremulous.  How  is  this  ?  " 

"  Wrinkles  and  gray  hairs  are  the  work  of  sorrows,  not  of 
years.  Eyes  that  are  weary  of  the  sight  of  suffering  grow 
dim  apace." 

407 


408         THE  OLD  TEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 

"  But  hark  !  "  said  the  youth.  "  Hear  you  not  that  mu 
sic  —  the  peals  of  laughter  that  come  from  yonder  illumi 
nated  house  ?  It  is  a  wedding  festival." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  old  man,  sadly.  "  A  twelvemonth 
since,  I  heard  the  same  sounds  in  the  same  house.  There 
was  music  and  feasting  —  it  was,  as  now,  a  wedding  festi 
val.  Where  is  the  -bride?  Go  to  yonder  churchyard. 
You  will  find  her  name  inscribed  on  a  simple  stone.  If  you 
pass  out  of  the  city  to  the  north,  you  will  see  some  huge 
buildings  of  brick,  towering  upon  an  eminence.  If  you 
linger  by  the  garden  wall  you  will  hear  shrieks  and  curses, 
the  howls  of  despair,  the  ravings  of  hopeless  lunacy.  The 
husband  is  there  —  the  victim  of  his  own  evil  passions  —  a 
raving  maniac." 

"  Away  with  these  croaking  reminiscences ! "  cried  the 
younger  voice.  "  Let  the  music  peal  —  let  the  dance  go  on. 
The  wine  is  red  within  the  cup." 

"  Yes  —  and  the  deadly  serpent  lurks  below." 

"  Then  the  world  is  all  desolate  !  "  cried  the  New  Year. 

"  No !  there  are  green  spots  in  the  desert ! "  said  the 
Old  Year ;  "  but  beware  of  deeming  it  all  fairyland !  But 
a  little  while  and  you  will  follow  me.  But  the  end  is  not 
here  —  after  Time,  Eternity  !  There  suffering  and  sin  are 
unknown.  There  each  departed  spirit,  after  making  the 
circuit  of  its  appointed  sphere,  shall  rise  to  a  higher  and  a 
higher,  while  boundless  love  and  wisdom  illuminate  all, 
radiating  from  a  centre  whose  brightness  no  human  senses 
can  conceive." 

The  old  man  was  gone.  The  joyous  bells  had  rung  his 
requiem.  The  young  heir  was  enthroned  —  and  with  min 
gled  hope  and  foreboding  commenced  the  reign  of  1853. 


.JO 


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The  three  brides 


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